UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIB^^Ar^Y,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE    ORDEAL 


OF 


RICHARD     FEVEREL 


1/'.  Georj^  Affrfiiith  is  thf  f^rratesl  Fiiglisli  novelist  living;  he  is 
.'.iNy  the  fp-eatesi  mr.ilist  of  our  time.  He  is  a  man  of  genius,  a 
r.iry  artist,  and  truly  a  great  writer.  —  TllK   BEACON. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  NOVELS. 
T I  T  L  p:  s. 

THE    ORDEAL    OF    R'CHARD  RKODA    FLEMING. 

FEVEREL.  BEAUCHAMP  S    CARRER. 

EVAN    HARRINGTON.  THE    EGOIST. 

HARRY   RICHMOND.  DIANA   OF  THE    CROSSWAYS. 

SANDRA    BELLONI.  THE    SHAVING    OF   SHAGPAT, 
VITTORIA.  AND    FARINA. 

ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS.  THE    TRAGIC    COMEDIANS. 


SOME     PRESS     NOTICES. 

Mr.  Mereditlrs  novels  .ire  an  iiuclleclual  ionic.  'I'liey  are  the  great,  and  in- 
deed, we  may  say,  they  Are  the  only  nnvels  of  any  livinj;  author  which  deserve  to 
be  called  great.  They  will  take  the  same  high  and  permanent  rank  tlial  is  as- 
si:.;ned  to  the  novels  of  George  Eliot  and  George  Sand.  They  are  deeper  in 
intellectual  power  than  Dickens,  while  they  have  less  of  his  dramatizations.  They 
are  an  intellectual  mine,  and  will  repay  careful  study.  —  Boston  Traveller. 

The  London  "  Athenseum ''  says  of  '"Diana  of  the  Crossways":  "It  is  a 
study  of  character,  and  it  is  also  a  study  of  emotion  ;  it  is  a  picture  of  fact  and  of 
the  world,  and  it  is  touched  with  generous  romance ;  it  is  rich  in  kindly  comedy, 
and  it  abounds  in  natural  passion  ;  it  sets  forth  a  selection  of  many  human  ele- 
ments and  it  is  joyful  and  sorrowful,  wholesome  with  laughter  and  fruitful  of  tears 
as  life  itself." 

Mr.  Meredith's  novels  certainly  have  the  qualities  which  we  marked  as  essen- 
tial to  permanent  literature.  They  can  set  before  you  pictures  of  happy  love,  or 
of  youth  and  nature  that  can  never  be  forgotten  ;  scenes  that  flash  before  your 
eyes  when  your  thoughts  are  elsewhere.  .  .  .  Whoever  reads  Mr.  Meredith  does 
not  waste  his  time.  He  is  in  good  company,  among  gentlemen  and  ladies  ; 
above  all,   in  the  company  of  a    Genius. — Daily  News. 

Genius  of  a  truly  original  and  spontaneous  kind  shines  in  every  one  of  these 
books;  of  fancy  there  is  only  too  much,  perhaps;  with  healthy  benevolent  sym- 
pathy they  abound ;  and  if  there  exists  any  greater  master  of  his  native  tongue 
than  Mr.  Meredith,  we  have  yet  to  hear  oi  the  gentleman's  name.  — St.  'James't 
Gazette. 

It  was  not  until  i?59,  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two,  that  he  pro- 
duced "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  his  first  mature  novel,  charged  to  the 
brim  with  earnestness,  wit,  strength  of  conception.  Meredith's  stories  generalix 
end  happily;  but  this  one  is  profoundly  tragic.  I  have  read  many  of  his  chapters 
without  being  moved,  even  when  the  situati'on  in  itself  must  theoretically  be  ac- 
knowledged an  affectin?  one.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  heart  which  is  not 
touched,  and  the  eyes  that  do  not  become  moist,  in  the  reading  of  the  last  portions 
of  "  Kichard  Feverel"  must  be  indurated  with  a  glaze  of  indiJerence  which  is 
not  to  be  envied. — G.   P.   Lathrop,  in  Atlaniit  Monthly. 


12  Volumes,  English  Edition,  uncut,  i2mo.      Price,  $1.00. 

12  Volumes,  English  Edition    half  calf.       Extra,  $3000  the  set. 

12  Volumes,  Popular  American  Edition,  i6mo,  cloth       Price,  $1.50. 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS.    Publishers. 

BOSTON,    MASS. 


THE    ORDEAL 


OF 


RICHARD    FEVEREL 

^  ^istors  of  a  jFatljcr  antj  ^on 

BY 

GEORGE     MEREDITH 


AUTHOR'S    EDITION 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

1894 


(Hnibcrsitg  iSrtss: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

1.       THE    INMATES    OF    RAYNUAM    ABBEY       ...  1 

II.       SHOWING    HOW    THE     FATES    SELECTED    THE    FOUR- 
TEENTH   BIRTHDAY    TO    TRY    THE    STRENGTH    OF 

THE    SYSTEM             ......  8 

III.  THE    MAGIAN    CONFLICT        .            .            .            .            .  IG 

IV.  ARSON        . 20 

V.       ADRIAN    FLIES    HIS    HOOK    .....  30 

VI.      JUVENILE    STRATAGEMS         .....  34 

VII.       daphne's    BOWER        ......  41 

VIII.       THE   BITTER    CUP         ......  46 

IX.       A    FINE    DISTINCTION              .....  54 

X.       RICHARD  PASSES    THROUGH    HIS    PRELIMINARY  OR- 
DEAL, AND    IS    THE    OCCASION    OF   AN  APHORISM  59 
XI.       IN     WHICH     THE     LzVST     ACT     OF     THE     BAKEWELL 

COMEDY    IS    CLOSED    IN    A    LETTER     ...  GO 

XII.       THE    BLOSSOMING    SEASON                .             .            .             .  7'2 

XIII.  THE    MAGNETIC    AGE               .....  83 

XIV.  AN    ATTRACTION 91 

XV.       FERDINAND    AND    MIRANDA            ....  98 

XVI.       UNMASKING    OF    MASTER    RIPTON    THOMPSON              .  lOG 
XVIL       GOOD    WINE    AND    GOOD    BLOOD    .             .            .             .115 
XVIIL       THE      SYSTEM       ENCOUNTERS       THE       WILD       OATS' 

SPECIAL     PLEA 120 

XIX.       A     SHADOWY      VIEW     OF     CffiLEBS      PATER     GOING 

ABOUT    WITH    A    GLASS-SLIPPER  .  .  .124 

XX.       A    DIVERSION    PLAYED    ON    A    PENNY    WHISTLE        .  132 
XXI.      CELEBRATES    THE    TIME-HONOURED    TRKATMEXT     OF 

A    DRAGON    BY    THE    HERO  .  .  .  .136 


CONTENTS. 


I'u  A  r. 
XX 11. 

XXUI. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVll. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVlll. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 
XLII. 
XLIII. 
XLIV. 
XLV. 
XLVI. 


HKII-VUn     I.S     8LMM0NKU     TO     TOWN     TO     lIKAIi     A 

SKU.MOX  .  .  .  .  .  .  .155 

INDICATES    THE    ArrUOACIIES    OF    FEVER  .  .        1()3 

CRISIS    IN    THE    APPLE-DISEASE  .  .  .        1 7G 

OF  THE  SPRING  PRIMROSE  AND  THE  AUTUMNAL.  190 
IN    WHICH    THE    HERO    TAKES    A    STEP  .  .195 

RECORDS  THE  RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO  214 
CONTAINS  AN  INTERCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE  .  228 
RELATES     HOW    PREPARATIONS    FOR    ACTION    WERE 

CONDUCTED    UNDER    THE    APRIL    OF    LOVERS         .       231 
IN     WHICH     THE     LAST    ACT    OF    A    COMEDY    TAKES 

THE    PLACE    OF    THE    FIliST       ....       247 

celebrates  the  breakfast  .  .  .  „  2g0 
the  pmlosopher  appears  in  person  .  .270 
procession  of  the  cake  ....  280 
nursing  the  devil  .....     29g 

conquest  of  an  epicure         ....     307 

Clare's  marriage 327 

a  dinner  party  at  richmond  .  .  .341 
mrs.  berry  on  matrimony      ,         .         .        .357 

an  enchantress 3g8 

the  little  bird   and  the  falcon  :  a  berry  to 

the  rescue 391 

clare's  diary 408 

austin  returns      .,...•     424 

nature  speaks        435 

again  the  magian  conflict  ....     445 

the  last  scene 451 

lady  blandish  to  austin  wentworth    .         .     4g8 


THE 

OEDEAL  OF  KICHARD  FEVEEEL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  INMATES  OF  RAYNHAM  ABBEY. 

Some  years  ago  a  book  was  published  under  the  title 
of  "  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip."  It  consisted  of  a  selection  of 
original  aphorisms  by  an  anonymous  gentleman,  who  in 
this  bashful  manner  gave  a  bruised  heart  to  the  world. 

He  made  no  pretension  to  novelty.  "  Our  new  thoughts 
have  thrilled  dead  bosoms,"  he  wrote ;  by  which  avowal  it 
may  be  seen  that  youth  had  manifestly  gone  from  him,  since 
he  had  ceased  to  be  jealous  of  the  ancients.  There  was  a 
half-sigh  floating  through  his  pages  for  those  days  of  intel- 
lectual coxcombry,  when  ideas  come  to  us  affecting  the 
embraces  of  virgins,  and  swear  to  us  they  are  ours  alone,  and 
no  one  else  have  they  ever  visited :  and  we  believe  them. 

For  an  example  of  his  ideas  of  the  sex  he  said: 

"  I  expect  that  Woman  will  be  the  last  thing  civilized  by 
Man." 

Some  excitement  was  produced  in  the  bosoms  of  ladies  by 
60  monstrous  a  scorn  of  them. 

One  adventurous  person  betook  herself  to  the  Heralds* 
College,  and  there  ascertained  that  a  Griffin  between  two 
Wheatsheaves,  which  stood  on  the  title-page  of  the  book, 
formed  the  crest  of  Sir  Austin  Absworthy  IJearno  Feverel, 
Baronet,  of  Raynham  Abbey,  in  a  certain  Westei'n  county 
folding  Thames  :  a  man  of  wealth  and  honour,  and  a  some- 
what lamentable  history. 

The  outline  of  the  baronet's  story  was  by  no  means  new. 


2  THE  OUDFAI,  OF  RiriTARH  FKVKREL. 

lie  had  a  wife,  and  ho  had  a  friend.  His  maniago  was  hit 
iove  ;  his  wife  was  a  beauty;  his  friend  was  a  sort  of  poet. 
His  wife  had  his  whok'  heart,  and  his  friend  all  his  con- 
fidence. When  he  selected  Denzil  Somers  from  among  his 
college  chums,  it  was  not  on  account  of  any  similarity  of 
disposition  between  them,  but  from  his  intense  worshij)  of 
genius,  which  made  him  overlook  the  absence  of  principle 
in  his  associate  for  the  sake  of  such  brilliant  promise. 
Denzd  had  a  small  patrimony  to  lead  off  with,  but  that  he 
dissipated  before  he  left  college,  and  thenceforth  he  was 
dependent  upon  his  admirer,  with  whom  he  lived,  filling  n 
nominal  post  of  bailiff  to  "the  estates,  and  launching  forth 
verse  of  some  satiric  and  sentimental  quality ;  for  being 
inclined  to  vice,  and  occasionally,  and  in  a  quiet  way,  prac- 
tising it,  he  was  of  course  a  sentimentalist  and  a  satii-ist, 
entitled  to  lash  the  Age  and  complain  of  human  nature. 
His  earlier  poems,  published  under  the  pseudonym  of  Diaper 
Sandoe,  were  so  pure  and  bloodless  in  their  love  passages, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  biting  in  their  moral  tone,  that  his 
reputation  was  great  among  the  virtuous,  who  form  tho 
larger  portion  of  the  English  book-buying  public.  Election- 
seasons  called  him  to  ballad-poetry  on  behalf  of  the  Tory 
party.  Diaper  possessed  undoubted  fluency,  but  did  little, 
though  Sir  Austin  was  ever  expecting  much  of  him. 

A  languishing,  inexperienced  woman,  whose  husband  in 
mental  and  in  moral  stature  is  more  than  the  ordinary  height 
above  her,  and  who,  now  that  her  first  i-omantic  admiration 
of  his  lofty  bearing  has  worn  off,  and  her  little  fretful  refine- 
ments of  taste  and  sentiment  are  not  instinctively  i-esponded 
to,  is  thrown  into  no  wholesome  household  collision  with  a 
fluent  man,  fluent  in  prose  and  rhyme.  Lady  Feverel,  when 
she  fiist  entered  on  her  duties  at  Raynham,  was  jealous  of 
her  husband's  friend.  By  degrees  she  tolerated  him.  In 
time  he  touched  his  guitar  in  her  chamber,  and  they  played 
Rizzio  and  Mary  together. 

"For  I  am  not  the  first  who  found 
The  niime  of  Mary  fatal  I " 

says  a  subsequent  sentimental  alliterative  love-poem  of 
Diaper's. 

Such  was  the  outline  of  the  story.  But  the  baronet  could 
6)1  it  up.      He  had  opened  his  soul  to  these  two.     He  had 


THE  INMATES  OF  RAYNHAM  ABBEY,  3 

been  noble  Love  to  the  one,  and  to  the  other  perfect  Friend, 
ship.  He  had  bid  them  be  brother  and  sister  whom  he 
loved,  and  live  a  Grolden  Age  with  him  at  Raynham.  In  fact, 
he  had  been  prodigal  of  the  excellences  of  his  nature,  which 
it  is  not  good  to  be,  and,  like  Timon,  he  became  bankrupt, 
and  fell  upon  bitterness. 

The  faithless  lady  was  of  no  particular  family;  an  orphan 
daughter  of  an  admiral  who  educated  her  on  his  half-pay, 
and  her  conduct  struck  but  at  the  man  whose  name  she  bore. 

After  five  years  of  marriage,  and  twelve  of  friendship,  Sir 
Austin  was  left  to  his  loneliness  with  nothing  to  ease  his 
heart  of  love  upon  save  a  little  baby  boy  in  a  cradle.  He 
forgave  the  man  :  he  put  him  aside  as  poor  for  his  wrath. 
The  woman  he  could  not  forgive  ;  she  had  sinned  every  way. 
Simple  ingratitude  to  a  benefactor  was  a  pardonable  trans- 
gression, for  he  was  not  one  to  recount  and  crush  the  culprit 
under  the  heap  of  his  good  deeds.  But  her  he  had  raised  to 
be  his  equal,  and  he  judged  her  as  his  equal.  She  had 
blackened  the  world's  fair  aspect  for  him. 

In  the  presence  of  that  world,  so  different  to  him  now,  he 
preserved  his  wonted  demeanour,  and  made  his  features  a 
flexible  mask.  Mi*s.  Doria  Forey,  his  widowed  sister,  said 
that  Austin  might  have  retired  from  his  Parliamentary 
career  for  a  time,  and  given  up  gaieties  and  that  kind  of 
thing;  her  opinion,  founded  on  observation  of  him  in  public 
and  private,  was,  that  the  light  thing  that  had  taken  flight 
was  but  a  feather  on  her  brother's  Feverel-heart,  and  his 
ordinary  course  of  life  would  be  resumed.  There  are  times 
when  common  men  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  just  so  much. 
Hippias  Feverel,  one  of  his  brothers,  thought  him  immensely 
improved  by  his  misfortune,  if  the  loss  of  such  a  person  could 
be  so  designated ;  and  seeing  that  Hippias  received  in  con- 
sequence free  quarters  at  Raynham,  and  possession  of  the 
wing  of  the  Abbey  she  had  inhabited,  it  is  profitable  to 
know  his  thoughts.  If  the  baronet  had  given  two  or  three 
blazing  dinners  in  the  great  hall  he  would  have  deceived 
people  generally,  as  he  did  his  relatives  aiid  intimates.  He 
was  too  sick  for  that :   fit  only  for  passive  acting. 

The  nursemaid  waking  in  the  night  beheld  a  solitary  figure 
darkening  a  lamp  above  her  little  sleeping  charge,  and 
became  so  used  to  the  sight  as  never  to  wake  with  a  start. 
One  night  she  was  strangely  aroused  by  a  sound  of  sobbino' 

n  2 


«  TIIK  OUDEAL  OF  HICnARD  FEVEREL. 

The  baronet  stood  beside  the  cot  in  his  \ong  bluck  cloak  and 
ti-avellinc:  cap.  His  fingers  shaded  a  lamp,  and  leddened 
against  the  fitful  darkness  that  ever  and  anon  went  leaping 
up  the  wall.  She  could  hardly  believe  her  senses  to  see  the 
austere  gentleman,  dead  silent,  di-ojiping  tear  u])on  tear  before 
her  eyes.  She  lay  stone-still  in  a  trance  of  ten-orand  mourn- 
fulness,  mechanically  counting  the  tears  as  they  fell,  one 
by  one.  The  hidden  face,  the  fall  and  flash  of  those  heavy 
di-ops  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  he  held,  the  upi-ight,  awful 
tigure,  agitated  at  regular  intervals  like  a  piece  of  clockwork 
by  the  low  murderous  catch  of  his  breath:  it  was  so  piteous 
to  her  poor  human  nature  that  her  heart  began  wildly  palpi- 
tating. Involuntai-ily  the  poor  girl  ci-ied  out  to  him,  "  Oh, 
sir  !  "  and  fell  a- weeping.  Sir  Austin  turned  the  lamp  on  her 
pillow,  and  harshly  bade  her  go  to  sleep,  striding  from  the 
I'oom  forthwith.  He  dismissed  her  with  a  purse  the  next 
day. 

Once,  when  he  was  seven  yeai-s  old,  the  little  fellow  woke 
up  at  night  to  see  a  lady  bending  over  him.  He  talked  of 
this  the  next  day,  but  it  was  treated  as  a  dream;  until  in  the 
course  of  the  day  his  uncle  Algernon  was  di'iven  home  from 
Loboume  cricket-ground  with  a  broken  leg.  Then  it  was 
recollected  that  there  was  a  family  ghort;  and,  though  no 
member  of  the  family  believed  in  ■^he  ghost,  none  would  have 
given  up  a  circumstance  that  testified  to  its  existence ;  for  to 
possess  a  ghost  is  a  distinction  above  titles. 

Algernon  Feverel  lost  his  leg,  and  ceased  to  be  a  gentleman 
in  the  Guards.  Of  the  other  uncles  of  young  Richard, 
Cuthbert,  the  sailor,  perished  in  a  spirited  boat  expedition 
against  a  slaving  negro  chief  up  the  Niger.  Some  of  the 
gallant  lieutenant's  trophies  of  war  decorated  the  little  boy's 
play-shed  at  Raynham,  and  he  bequeathed  his  sword  to 
Richard,  whose  hero  he  was.  The  diplomatist  and  beau, 
Vivian,  ended  his  flutterings  from  flower  to  flower  by  making 
an  improper  marriage,  as  is  the  fate  of  many  a  beau,  and  was 
struck  out  of  the  list  of  visitors.  Algernon  generally  occupied 
the  baronet's  disused  town-house,  a  wretched  being,  dividing 
his  time  between  horse  and  cai-d  exercise :  possessed,  it  was 
said,  of  the  absurd  notion  that  a  man  who  has  lost  his  balance 
by  losing  his  leg  maj^  regain  it  by  sticking  to  the  bottle. 
At  least,  whenevc  he  and  his  brother  Hippias  got  together, 
they  nevr  failed  to  try  whether  one  kg,  or  two,  stood   tlio 


THE  INMATES  OF  RAYNHAM  ABBEY.  5 

bottle  best.  Much  of  a  puritan  as  Sir  Austin  was  in  his 
habits,  he  was  too  good  a  host,  and  too  thorough  a  gentleman, 
to  impose  them  upon  his  guests.  The  brothers,  and  other 
relatives,  might  do  as  they  would  while  they  did  not  disgrace 
the  name,  and  then  it  was  final :  they  must  depart  to  behold 
his  countenance  no  more. 

Algernon  Feverel  was  a  simple  man,  who  felt,  subsequent 
to  his  misfortune,  as  he  had  perhaps  dimly  fancied  it  befoie, 
that  his  career  lay  in  his  legs,  and  was  now  irrevocably  cut 
short.  He  taught  the  boy  boxing,  and  shooting,  and  the  arts 
of  fence,  and  supei-intended  the  direction  of  his  animal  vigour 
with  a  melancholy  vivacity.  The  remaining  energies  of 
Algernon's  mind  were  devoted  to  animadversions  on  swift 
bowling.  He  preached  it  over  the  county,  struggling  through 
laborious  literary  compositions,  addi^essed  to  sporting  news- 
papers, on  the  Decline  of  Cricket.  It  was  Algernon  who 
witnessed  and  chronicled  young  Richard's  first  fight,  which 
was  with  young  Tom  Blaize  of  Belthorpe  Farm,  three  years 
the  boy's  senior. 

Hippias  Feverel  was  once  thought  to  be  the  genius  of  the 
family.  It  was  his  ill  luck  to  have  strong  appetites  and  a 
weak  stomach  ;  and,  as  one  is  not  altogether  fit  for  the  battle 
of  life  who  is  engaged  in  a  perpetual  contention  with  his 
dinner,  Hippias  forsook  his  prospects  at  the  Bar,  and,  in  the 
embraces  of  dyspepsia,  compiled  his  ponderous  work  on  the 
Fairy  Mythology  of  Europe.  He  had  little  to  do  with  the 
Hope  of  Ilaynham  beyond  what  he  endured  from  his  juvenile 
tricks. 

A  venerable  lady,  known  as  Great- Aunt  Grantley,  who  had 
money  to  bequeatn  to  the  heir,  occupied  with  Hippias  the 
background  of  the  house  and  shared  her  caudles  with  him. 
These  two  were  seldom  seen  till  the  dinner-hour,  for  which 
they  were  all  day  preparing,  and  probably  all  night  remem- 
bering, for  the  eighteenth  century  was  an  admirable  trench, 
erman,  and  cast  age  aside  while  there  was  a  dish  on  the 
table. 

Mrs.  Doria  Forey  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  sisters  of  the 
baronet,  a  florid  allable  woman,  with  fine  teeth,  exceedingly 
fine  light  wavy  hair,  a  Norman  nose,  and  a  reputation  for 
understanding  men,  which,  with  these  practical  creatures, 
always  means  the  art  of  managing  them.  She  had  married 
an   expectant  younger  son  of  a  good  family,  wlio  deceased 


6  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

Iii>f(nt3  the  fultilmeiit  of  his  pi"ospccts ;  and,  casting  ahout  in 
lier  mind  the  future  chanci-s  of  lier  little  daughter  and  solo 
cliild,  Clare,  she  marked  down  a  probability  ;  and  the  far 
sight,  the  deep  determination,  the  resolute  perseverance  of 
her  sex,  where  a  daughter  is  to  be  provided  for  and  a  man 
to  be  overthrown,  instigated  her  to  invite  herself  to  Raynham, 
■where,  with  that  daughter,  she  fixed  herself. 

The  other  two  Feverel  ladies  were  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Wentworth  and  the  widow  of  Mr.  Justice  Harley  :  and  tlie 
only  thing  remarkable  about  them  was  that  they  were  mothei-s 
of  sons  of  some  distinction. 

Austin  Wentworth's  story  was  of  that  wretched  character 
which  to  be  comprehended,  that  justice  should  be  dealt  him, 
must  be  told  out  and  openly  ;    which  no  one  dares  now  do. 

For  a  fault  in  early  youth,  redeemed  by  him  nobly,  accord- 
ing to  his  light,  he  was  condemned  to  undergo  the  world's 
harsh  judgment:  not  for  the  fault — for  its  atonement. 

" — Married  his  mother's  housemaid,"  whispered  ^Mrs. 
Doria,  with  a  ghastly  look,  and  a  shudder  at  young  men  of 
republican  sentiments,  which  he  was  reputed  to  enteitain. 

"  The  compensation  for  Injustice,"  says  the  "  Pilgiim's 
Scrip,"  "  is,  that  in  that  dark  Ordeal  we  gather  the  worthiest 
around  us." 

And  the  baronet's  fair  friend,  Lady  Blandish,  and  some 
few  true  men  and  women,  held  Austin  Wentworth  high. 

He  did  not  live  with  his  wife  ;  and  Sir  Austin,  whose  mind 
was  bent  on  the  future  of  our  species,  reproached  him  with 
being  barren  to  posterity,  while  knaves  were  propagating. 

The  principal  characteristic  of  the  second  nephew,  Adiian 
Harley,  was  his  sagacity.  He  was  essentially  the  wise  youth, 
both  in  counsel  and  in  action. 

"In  action,"  the  'Pilgrim's  Scrip'  observes,  " "Wisdom 
goes  by  majoiities." 

Adrian  had  an  instinct  for  the  majorities,  and,  as  the  world 
invariably  found  him  enlisted  in  its  ranks,  his  appellation  of 
wise  youth  was  acquiesced  in  without  irony. 

The  wise  youth,  then,  had  the  woi-ld  with  him,  but  no 
fi-iends.  Nor  did  he  wish  for  those  troublesome  appendages 
of  success.  He  caused  himself  to  be  requii-ed  by  people  who 
could  serve  him ;  feared  by  such  as  could  injure.  Not  that  he 
went  out  of  the  way  to  secure  his  end,  or  risked  the  expense 
of  a  plot.   He  did  the  woi-k  as  easily  as  he  ate  his  daily  bread. 


THE  INMATES  OF  RAYNHAM  ABBEY.  7 

Adrian  was  an  epicurean;  one  whom  Epicurus  would  have 
sc3urged  out  of  his  garden,  certainly:  an  epiciirean  of  our 
modern  notions.  To  satis fj^  his  appetites  without  rashly- 
staking-  his  character,  was  the  wise  youth's  problem  for  life. 
He  had  no  intimates  except  Gibbon  and  Horace,  and  the 
society  of  these  fine  aristocrats  of  literature  helped  him  to 
accept  humanity  as  it  had  been,  and  was  ;  a  supreme  ironic 
procession,  with  laughter  of  Gods  in  the  Imckground.  Why 
not  laughter  of  mortals  also  ?  Adrian  had  his  laugh  in  his 
comfortable  corner.  He  possessed  peculiar  attributes  of  a 
heathen  God.  He  was  a  disposer  of  men  :  he  was  polished, 
luxurious,  and  happy — at  their  cost.  He  lived  in  eminent 
self-content,  as  one  lying  on  soft  cloud,  laptin  sunshine.  Nor 
Jove,  nor  Apollo,  cast  eye  upon  the  maids  of  earth  with 
cooler  fire  of  selection,  or  pursued  them  in  the  covert  with 
more  sacred  impunity.  And  he  enjoyed  his  reputation  for 
virtue  as  something  additional.  Stolen  fruits  are  said  to  be 
sweet ;  undeserved  rewards  are  exquisite. 

The  best  of  it  was,  that  Adrian  made  no  pretences.  He  did 
not  solicit  the  favourable  judgement  of  the  world.  Nature  and 
he  attempted  no  other  concealment  than  the  oi-dinary  mask 
men  wear.  And  yet  the  world  would  proclaim  him  moral, 
as  well  as  wise,  and  the  pleasing  conveioC  every  way  of  his 
disgraced  cousin  Austin. 

In  a  word,  Adrian  Harley  had  mastered  his  philosophy  at 
the  early  age  of  one-and-twenty.  Many  would  be  glad  to  say 
the  same  at  that  age  twice-told  :  they  carry  in  their  breasts 
a  burden  with  which  Adinan's  was  not  loaded.  Mrs.  Doria 
was  nearly  right  about  his  heart.  A  singular  mishap  (at 
his  birth,  possibly,  or  before  it)  had  unseated  that  organ, 
and  shaken  it  down  to  his  stomach,  where  it  was  a  much 
lighter,  nay,  an  inspiring  weiglit,  and  encouraged  him  meri'ily 
oiiwai-d.  Throned  there  it  looked  on  little  that  did  not  arrive 
to  gratify  it.  Already  that  region  was  a  trido  prominent  in 
the  person  of  the  wise  youth,  and  carried,  as  it  were,  the  flag 
of  liis  philosophical  tenets  in  front  of  him.  He  was  charm- 
ing after  dinner,  with  men  or  with  women  :  delightfully  sar- 
castic :  perhaps  a  little  too  unscrupulous  in  his  moral  tone, 
but  that  his  moral  reputation  belied  him,  and  it  must  be  set 
down  to  genci'osity  of  disposition. 

Such  was  Adrian  Harley,  another  of  Sir  Austin's  intellec- 
tual  favourites,  chosen  from  mankind   to  superintend    tha 


8  THE  OKDEAL  OF  RirnARD  FEVKUEL. 

cdnration  of  his  son  at  Raynliam.  Adrian  had  hocn  destined 
fur  the  Church.  He  did  not  enter  into  ordei-s.  He  and  the 
bai-onet  had  a  conference  together  one  day,  and  from  that 
time  Adrian  became  a  fixture  in  the  Abbey.  His  fatlier  died 
in  his  pi-omising  son's  coHege  term,  bequeathing  him  nothing 
but  his  legal  complexion,  and  Adrian  became  stii^eudiury 
ofliccr  in  his  uncle's  household. 

A  playfellow  of  Richard's  occasionally,  and  the  only 
comrade  of  his  age  that  he  ever  saw,  was  ^Master  Ripton 
Thompson,  the  son  of  Sir  Austin's  solicitor,  a  boy  without  a 
character. 

A  comi-ade  of  some  description  was  necessary,  for  Richard 
was  neither  to  go  to  school  nor  to  college.  Sir  Austin  con- 
sidered that  the  schools  were  corrupt,  and  maintained  that 
young  lads  might  by  parental  vigilance  be  kept  pretty  secure 
from  the  Serpent  until  Eve  sided  with  him :  a  period  thai 
might  be  defen-ed,  he  said.  He  had  a  system  of  education 
for  his  son.     How  it  worked  we  shall  see. 


CHAPTER  II. 


BHOWTNG  HOW  THE  FATES  SELECTED  THE  FOUBTEENTH  BIRTHDAY 
TO  TRT  THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  SYSTEM. 

OcTORER  shone  royally  on  Richard's  fourteenth  birthday. 
The  brown  beechwoods  and  golden  birches  glowed  to  a 
brilliant  sun.  Banks  of  moveless  cloud  hung  about  the 
horizon,  mounded  to  the  west,  where  slept  the  wind.  Pro- 
mi.se  of  a  great  day  for  Raynham,  as  it  proved  to  be,  though 
not  in  the  manner  marked  out. 

Already  archery-booths  and  crickcting-tents  were  rising 
on  the  lower  grounds  towards  the  river,  whither  the  lads  of 
Bursley  and  Loboume,  in  boats  and  in  carts,  shouting  for  a 
day  of  ale  and  honour,  jogged  meirily  to  match  themselves 
anew,  and  pluck  at  the  li^nng  laurel  from  each  other's  brows, 
like  manly  Britons.  The  whole  park  was  beginning  to  be 
astir  and  resound  with  holiday  cries.  Sir  Austin  Feverel, 
a  thorough  good  Tory,  was  no  game-preserver,  and  could  be 
po]mlar  whenever  he  chose,  which  Sir  Miles  Papworth,  on 


THE  rOUETEENTH  BIRTHDAY.  9 

the  other  side  of  the  river,  a  fast-handed  Whig  and  teri'or  to 
poachers,  never  could  be.  Half  the  village  of  Loboume  was 
seen  trooping  through  the  avenues  of  the  park.  Fiddlei-s 
and  gipsies  clamoured  at  the  gates  for  admission :  white 
smocks,  and  slate,  surmounted  bv  hats  of  serious  brim,  and 
now  and  then  a  scarlet  cloak,  smacking  of  the  old  country, 
dotted  the  grassy  sweeps  to  the  levels. 

And  all  the  time  the  star  of  these  festivities  was  receding 
further  and  further,  and  eclipsing  himself  with  his  reluctant 
serf  Ripton,  who  kept  asking  what  they  were  to  do  and 
wheie  they  were  going,  and  how  late  it  was  in  the  day,  and 
suggesting  that  the  lads  of  Lobourne  would  be  calling  out  for 
them,  and  Sir  Austin  requiring  their  presence,  without  get- 
ting any  attention  paid  to  his  misery  or  remonstrances.  For 
Richard  had  been  requested  by  his  father  to  submit  to 
medical  examination  like  a  boor  enlisting  for  a  soldier,  and 
he  was  in  great  wrath. 

He  was  flying  as  though  he  would  have  flown  from  the 
shameful  thought  of  what  had  been  asked  of  him.  By-and- 
by  he  communicated  his  sentiments  to  Ripton,  who  said  they 
were  those  of  a  girl :  an  offensive  remark,  remembering 
which,  Richard,  after  they  had  borrowed  a  couple  of  guns  at 
the  bailiff's  farm,  and  Ripton  had  fired  badly,  called  his  friend 
a  fool. 

Feeling  that  circumstances  were  making  him  look  wonder- 
fully like  one,  Ripton  lifted  his  head  and  retorted  defiantly, 
"  I'm  not !  " 

This  angry  contradiction,  so  very  uncalled  for,  annoyed 
Richard,  who  was  still  smarting  at  the  loss  of  his  birds, 
owing  to  Ripton's  bad  shot,  and  was  really  the  injured  pai'ty. 
He  therefore  bestowed  the  abusive  epithet  on  Ripton  anew, 
and  with  increase  of  emphasis. 

"  You  shan't  call  me  so,  then,  whether  I  am  or  not,"  says 
Ripton,  and  sucks  his  lips. 

This  was  becoming  pei'sonal.  Richard  sent  up  his  brows, 
and  stared  at  his  defier  an  instant.  He  then  informed  him 
that  he  certainly  should  call  him  so,  and  would  not  oljjcct  to 
call  him  so  twenty  times. 

■'  Do  it,  and  see  !"  returns  Ripton,  rocking  on  his  feet,  and 
breathing  quick. 

With  a  gravity  of  wliich  only  boys  and  other  barbarians 
are  capable,  Richard  went,  through  the  entire  nnmbor,  stres.s- 


10  TITF.  0K1>KA1-  OF  RICIIAUD  FEVEREL. 

inij  the  epithet  to  inerease  Ihc  defiance  and  avoid  monotony, 
ns  he  progressed,  while  Rijiton  bobbed  his  head  every  time 
in  assent,  as  it  were,  to  his  conuade's  aceuracy,  and  as  a 
record  for  his  profound  liumiliation.  The  dog  they  had  with 
them  gazed  at  tlie  extraordinary  performance  with  interro- 
gating wags  of  the  taih 

Twenty  times,  duly  and  deliberately,  Richard  repeated  the 
obnoxious  word. 

At  the  twentieth  solemn  iteration  of  Ripton's  capital 
shortcoming,  Ripton  delivered  a  smart  back-hander  on 
Richard's  mouth,  and  squared  precipitately;  perhaps  soi-ry 
when  the  deed  was  done,  for  he  was  a  kind-hearted  lad,  and 
as  Richard  simply  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  blow  he 
thought  he  had  gone  too  far.  He  did  not  know  the  young 
gentleman  he  was  dealing  with.  Richard  was  extremely 
cool 

"  Shall  we  fight  here  ?"  he  said. 

*'  Anywhere  you  like,"  replied  Ripton. 

"A  little  more  into  the  wood,  I  think.  We  may  be  inter- 
rupted."  And  Richard  led  the  way  with  a  courteous  reserve 
that  somewhat  chilled  Ripton's  ardour  for  the  contest.  On 
the  skirts  of  the  wood,  Richard  threw  off  his  jacket  and 
waistcoat,  and,  quite  collected,  waited  for  Ripton  to  do  the 
same.  The  latter  boy  was  flushed  and  restless  ;  older  and 
broader,  but  not  so  tight- limbed  and  well-set.  The  Gods, 
sole  witnesses  of  their  battle,  betted  dead  against  him. 
Richard  had  mounted  the  white  cockade  of  the  Feverels,  and 
there  was  a  look  in  him  that  asked  for  tough  work  to  extin- 
guish. His  brows,  slightly  lined  upward  at  the  temples, 
converging  to  a  knot  about  the  well-set  straight  nose ;  his 
full  gi'ey  eyes,  open  nostrils,  and  planted  feet,  and  a  gentle- 
manly air  of  calm  and  alertness,  formed  a  spirited  picture 
of  a  young  combatant.  As  for  Ripton,  he  was  all  abi-oad, 
and  fought  in  school-boy  style — that  is,  he  rushed  at  the  foe 
head  foremost,  and  struck  like  a  windmill.  He  was  a  lumpy 
boy.  When  he  did  hit,  he  made  himself  felt ;  but  he  was  at 
the  mercy  of  science.  To  see  him  come  dashing  in,  blinking 
and  puffing  and  whirling  his  arms  abroad  while  the  felling 
blow  went  straight  between  them,  you  perceived  that  he 
was  fighting  a  fight  of  desperation,  and  knew  it.  For  the 
dreaded  alternative  glared  him  in  the  face  that,  if  he  yielded, 
he  must  look  like  what  he   had  been  twentv  times  calura- 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY,  ]  1 

niously  called;  and  lie  would  die  rather  than  yield,  and 
swing  his  windmill  till  he  dropped.  Poor  boy  !  he  dropped 
frequently.  The  gallant  fellow  fought  for  appearances,  and 
down  he  went.  The  Gods  favour  one  of  two  parties.  Prince 
Tumus  was  a  noble  youth;  but  he  had  not  Pallns  at  his 
elbow.  Ripton  was  a  capital  boy,  but  he  had  no  science. 
He  could  not  prove  he  was  not  a  fool !  When  one  conies  to 
think  of  it,  Ripton  did  choose  the  only  possible  way,  and  we 
should  all  of  us  have  considerable  difficulty  in  proving  the 
negative  by  any  other.  Ripton  came  on  the  unerring  fist 
again  and  again ;  and  if  it  was  true,  as  he  said  in  short  col- 
loquial  gaspc,  that  he  required  as  much  beating  as  an  egg  to 
be  beaten  thoroughly,  a  fortunate  interruption  alone  saved 
our  friend  from  resembling  that  substance.  The  boys  heard 
summoning  voices,  and  beheld  Mr.  Morton  of  Poer  Hall  and 
Austin  Wentworth  stepping  towards  them. 

A  truce  was  sounded,  jackets  were  caught  up,  guns  shoul- 
dered, and  off  they  trotted  in  concert  through  the  depths  of 
the  wood,  not  stopping  till  that  and  half-a-dozen  fields  and  a 
larch  plantation  were  well  behind  them. 

When  they  halted  to  take  breath,  there  was  a  mutual 
study  of  faces.  Ripton's  was  much  discoloured,  and  looked 
fiercer  with  its  natural  war-paint  than  the  boy  felt.  Never- 
theless, he  squared  up  dauntlessly  on  the  new  ground,  and 
Richard,  whose  wrath  was  appeased,  could  not  refrain  from 
asking  him  whether  he  had  not  really  had  enough. 

"  Never  ! "  shouts  the  noble  enemy. 

"  Well,  look  here,"  said  Richard,  appealing  to  common 
sense,  "  I'm  tired  of  knocking  you  down.  I'll  say  you're  not 
a  fool,  if  you'll  give  me  your  hand." 

Ripton  domurred  an  instant  to  consult  with  honour,  who 
bade  him  catch  at  his  chance. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "There!"  and  the  boys  grasped 
hands  and  were  fast  friends.  Ripton  had  gained  his  point, 
and  Richard  decidedly  had  the  best  of  it.  So  they  were  on 
equal  ground.  Both  could  claim  a  victory,  which  was  all 
the  better  for  their  friendship. 

Ripton  washed  his  face  and  comforted  his  nose  at  a  brook, 
and  was  now  ready  to  follow  his  fi'iend  wherever  he  cliose  to 
lead.  Tliey  continued  to  beat  about  for  birds.  The  birds 
on  the  Raynham  estates  were  found  singnlai-ly  cunning,  and 
repeatedly  eluded  the  aim  of  these  prime  shots,  so  they  pushed 


IJ  TIIH  ORDKAL  OF  nTCITARP  FKVKKEL. 

tlicir  cxpcilition  into  the  lands  of  tlu'ir  iiciLcliboars,  in  ficarch 
of  a  stujMclor  race,  ha|)pily  oblivious  of  the  hiws  and  con- 
ditions of  trespass ;  unconscious,  too,  that  they  were  poach- 
ing on  the  demesne  of  the  notorious  F.arnaer  Blaize,  the 
free-trade  farmer  under  the  shield  of  tlie  Papworths,  no 
worshipper  of  the  Grilfin  between  two  Whcatshoaves ; 
destined  to  be  much  allied  with  Richard's  fortunes  from 
beginning  to  end.  Fai-mer  Blaize  hated  poachers,  and  espe- 
cially young  chaps  poaching,  who  did  it  mostly  from  im- 
jiudcnce.  He  heard  the  audacious  shots  popping  right  and 
left,  and  going  forth  to  have  a  glimpse  at  the  intruders,  and 
observing  their  size,  swore  he  would  teach  my  gentlemen  a 
thing,  lords  or  no  lords. 

Richard  had  brought  down  a  beautiful  cock-pheasant,  and 
was  exulting  over  it,  when  the  farmer's  portentous  figure 
burst  upon  them,  cracking  an  avenging  horsewhip.  His 
salute  was  ironical. 

"  Havin'  good  sport,  gentlemen,  are  ye  ?" 

"  Just  bagged  a  splendid  bird  !  "  radiant  Richard  informed 
him. 

"  Oh  ! "  Parmer  Blaize  gave  an  admonitory  flick  of  the 
whip. 

"  Just  let  me  clap  eye  on't  then." 

"  Say,  please,"  interposed  Ripton,  who,  not  being  the 
possessor  of  the  bird,  was  not  blind  to  doubtful  aspects. 

Farmer  Blaize  threw  up  his  chin,  and  grinned  grimly. 

"  Please  to  you,  sir  ?  Why,  my  chap,  you  looks  as  if  ye 
didn't  much  mind  what  come  t'  yer  nose,  I  reckon.  You 
looks  an  old  poacher,  you  do.  Tall  ye  what  'tis !  "  He 
changed  his  banter  to  business,  "  That  bird's  mine !  Now 
you  jest  hand  him  over,  and  sheer  off,  you  dam  young 
scoundrels  !  I  know  ye  !  "  And  he  became  exceedingly 
opprobrious,  and  uttered  contempt  at  the  name  of  Feveiel. 

Richard  opened  his  eyes. 

"  If  you  wants  to  be  horsewhipped,  you'll  stay  where 
y'are  !  '  continued  the  fai-mer.  "  Giles  Blaize  never  stands 
nonsense  !  " 

*'  Then  we'll  stay,"  (juoth  Richard. 

"  Good  !  so  be't !     If  you  will  have't,  have't,  my  men  !  " 

As  a  preparatory  measure,  Farmer  Blaize  seized  a  wing  of 
the  bird,  on  which  both  boys  flung  themselves  desperately, 
and  secured  it  minus  the  pinion. 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY,  13 

"  That's  your  game,"  cried  the  farmer.  "  Here's  a  taste  of 
horsewhip  for  ye.  I  never  stands  nonsense  !"  and  sweetch 
went  the  mig-hty  whip,  well  swayed.  The  boys  tried  to  close 
with  him.  He  kept  his  distance  and  lashed  without  mercy. 
Black  blood  was  made  by  Farmer  Blaize  that  day  !  The  boys 
wriggled,  in  spite  of  themselves.  It  was  like  a  relentless 
serpent  coiling,  and  biting,  and  stinging  their  young  veins  to 
madness.  Probably  they  felt  the  disgrace  of  the  contortions 
they  were  made  to  go  through  more  than  the  pain,  but  the 
pain  was  fierce,  for  the  farmer  laid  about  from  a  practised 
arm,  and  did  not  consider  that  he  had  done  enough  till  he 
was  well  breathed  and  his  ruddy  jowl  inflamed.  He  paused, 
to  receive  the  remainder  of  the  cock-pheasant  in  his  face. 

"  Take  your  beastly  bird,"  cried  Richard. 

"  Money,  my  lads,  and  interest,"  roared  the  farmer,  lashing 
out  again. 

Shameful  as  it  was  to  retreat,  there  was  but  that  course 
open  to  them.     They  decided  to  surrender  the  field. 

"  Look  !  you  big  brute,"  Richard  shook  his  gun,  hoarse 
with  passion,  "  I'd  have  shot  you,  if  I'd  been  loaded.  Mind  ! 
if  I  come  across  you  when  I'm  loaded,  you  coward,  I'll  fire  !  " 

The  un-English  nature  of  this  threat  exasperated  Farmer 
Blaize,  and  he  pressed  the  pursuit  in  time  to  bestow  a  few 
farewell  stripes  as  they  were  escaping  tight-breeched  into 
neutral  territory.  At  the  hedge  they  parleyed  a  minute,  the 
farmer  to  inquire  if  they  had  had  a  mortal  good  tanning  and 
were  satisfied,  for  when  they  wanted  a  further  instalment  of 
the  same  they  were  to  come  for  it  to  Belthorpe  Fai^m,  and 
there  it  was  in  pickle :  the  boys  meantime  exploding  in 
menaces  and  threats  of  vengeance,  on  which  the  farmer  con- 
temptuously turned  his  back.  Ripton  had  already  stocked 
an  armful  of  flints  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  little  skirmishing. 
Richard,  however,  knocked  them  all  out,  saying,  "  No  ! 
Gentlemen  don't  fling  stones;  leave  that  to  the  blackguards." 

"  Just  one  shy  at  him  !  "  pleaded  Ripton,  with  his  eye  on 
Farmer  Blaize's  broad  mark,  and  his  whole  mind  drunken 
with  a  sudden  revelation  of  tlie  advantages  of  light  troops  in 
opposition  to  heavies. 

"No,"  said  Richard,  imperatively,  "no  stones,"  and 
mai'ched  briskly  away.  Ripton  followed  with  a  sigh.  His 
leader's  magnanimity  was  wholly  beyond  him.  A  good 
spanking  mark  at  the  fai-mer  would  have  relieved  Master 


14  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

Rlpton;  it  would  liavo  done  nothing  to  console  Ricliardl 
Feverel  for  the  ignominy  ho  had  been  coiiijiclled  to  submit 
to.  liipton  was  familiar  with  the  rod,  a  monster  much  de- 
Bpoiled  of  his  terrors  by  intimacy.  ]]ircli-fever  was  past 
with  this  boy.  The  horrible  sense  of  shame,  self-loathing, 
universal  hatred,  imjiotent  vengeance,  as  if  the  spirit  were 
steeped  in  abysmal  blackness,  which  comes  upon  a  courageous 
and  sensitive  youth  condemned  for  the  first  time  to  taste  this 
piece  of  fleshly  bitterness,  and  suiTer  what  he  feels  is  a  defile- 
ment, llipton  had  weathered  and  foi-gottcn.  He  was  seasoned 
wood,  and  took  the  world  pretty  wisely  ;  not  reckless  of 
castigation,  as  some  boys  become,  nor  over-sensitive  as  to 
dishonour,  as  his  friend  and  comrade  beside  liim  was. 

Richard's  blood  was  poisoned.  He  liad  the  fever  on  him 
severely.  He  would  not  allow  stone-flinging,  because  it  was 
a  habit  of  his  to  discountenance  it.  Mere  gentlemanly  con- 
sidei-ations  had  scarce  shielded  Farmer  Blaize,  and  certain 
very  ungentlemanly  schemes  were  coming  to  ghastly  heads 
in  the  tumult  of  his  brain  ;  rejected  solel}^  from  their  glaring 
impracticability  even  to  his  young  intelligence.  A  sweeping 
and  consummate  vengeance  for  the  indignity  alone  should 
satisfy  him.  Something  tremendous  must  bo  done,  and  done 
without  delay.  At  one  moment  he  thought  of  killing  all  the 
farmer's  cattle;  next  of  killing  him;  challenging  him  to 
single  combat  with  the  arms,  and  according  to  the  fashion 
of  gentlemen.  But  the  farmer  was  a  coward ;  he  would 
refuse.  Then  he,  Richard  Feverel,  would  stand  by  the 
farmer's  bedside,  and  rouse  him  ;  rouse  him  to  fight  with 
powder  and  ball  in  his  own  chamber,  in  the  cowardly  mid- 
night,  where  he  might  tremble,  but  dare  not  refuse. 

"Lord!"  cried  simple  Ripton,  while  these  hopeful  plots 
were  raging  in  his  comrade's  bi-ain,  now  sparkling  for  imme- 
diate execution,  and  anon  lapsing  disdainfully  dark  in  their 
cl  aiiccs  f  fulfilment,  "how  I  wish  you'd  hav^e  let  me  notch 
bun,  llicky !  I'm  a  safe  shot.  I  never  miss.  I  should  feel 
quite  jolly  if  I'd  spanked  him  once.  We  should  have  had 
the  best  of  him  at  tliat  game.  I  say  ! "  and  a  sharp  thought 
drew  Ripcon's  ideas  nearer  home,  "  I  wonder  whether  my 
no.se  is  as  bad  as  he  says  !  Where  can  I  see  myself  ?  Gra- 
cious !  what  shall  I  do  wlien  we  get  to  Raynham,  if  it  is  ? 
What'll  the  ladies  think  of  me  ?  O  Lord,  Ricky  !  suppose 
it  turns  blue  ?" 


THE  FOURTEENTH  BIRTHDAY.  13 

Ripton  moved  a  meditative  forefinger  down  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  as  this  horrible  suspicion  clouded  him.  Fai-mer 
Blaize  passed  from  his  mind.  The  wretched  boy  called  aloud 
in  agony  that  his  nose  was  turning  blue.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  a 
bit  of  raw  meat  to  lay  across  it ! "  he  cried.  "  What  a  fool  I 
was  to  fight ! — Won't  I  learn  boxing ! — What  shall  I  look 
like?"  To  these  doleful  exclamations  Richai-d  was  deaf, 
and  trudged  steadily  forward,  facing  but  one  object. 

After  tearing  through  innumerable  hedffes,  leaping  fences, 
jumping  dykes,  penetrating  brambly  copses,  and  getting 
dirty,  ragged,  and  tired,  Ripton  awoke  from  his  dream  of 
Farmer  Blaize  and  a  blue  nose  to  the  vivid  consciousness  of 
hunger ;  and  this  gi-ew  with  the  rapidity  of  light  upon  him, 
till  in  the  course  of  another  minute  he  was  endui'ing  the 
extremes  of  famine,  and  ventured  to  question  his  leader 
whither  he  was  being  conducted.  Raynham  was  out  of 
sight.  They  were  a  long  way  down  the  valley,  miles  from 
Lobourne,  in  a  country  of  sour  pools,  yellow  brooks,  rank 
pasturage,  desolate  heath.  Solitary  cows  were  seen ;  tlie 
smoke  of  a  mud  cottage;  a  cart  piled  with  peat;  a  donkey 
grazing  at  leisure,  oblivious  of  an  unkind  world  ;  geese  by  a 
horse-pond,  gabbling  as  in  the  first  loneliness  of  creation; 
uncooked  things  that  a  famishing  boy  cannot  possibly  care 
for,  and  must  despise.     Ripton  was  in  despair. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?"  he  inquired  with  a  voice  of 
the  last  time  of  asking,  and  halted  resolutely. 

Richard  now  broke  his  silence  to  reply,  "  Anywhere." 

"Anywhere!"  Ripton  took  up  the  moody  word.  "But 
ain't  you  awfully  hungry  ?"  he  gasped  vehemently  in  a  way 
that  showed  the  total  emptiness  of  his  stomach. 

"  No,"  was  Richard's  brief  response. 

"  Not  hungry  !  "  Ripton's  amazement  lent  him  increased 
vehemence.  "  Why,  you  haven't  had  anything  to  cat  since 
breakfast  !  Not  hungry  ?  I  declare  I'm  stai-ving.  I  feel 
such  a  gnawing  I  could  eat  dry  bread  and  cheese  !  " 

Richard  sneered  :  not  for  reasons  that  would  have  actuated 
a  similar  demonstration  of  the  philosojjhei'. 

"  Come,"  cried  Ripton,  "  at  all  events,  tell  us  where  you're 
going  to  sto})  ?" 

liicfiard  faced  about  to  make  a  querulous  retort.  The 
iiijured  and  liapless  visage  that  met  his  eye  disarmed  him. 
The  lad's  uidiappy  nose,  though  not  exactly  of  the  dreaded 


16  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARP  FEVEREL. 

hue,  wns  really  becoming'  discoloured.  To  upbraid  him 
would  be  cruel.  Richard  lifted  his  head,  surveyed  the  posi- 
tion,  and  exclaiming  "Here  !"  dropped  down  on  a  withered 
bank,  leaving  llipton  to  contemplate  him  as  a  puzzle  whose 
every  new  move  was  a  worse  perplexity. 


CHAPTER  ni. 

THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT 


Among  boys  there  are  laws  of  honour  and  chivalrous  codes, 
not  written  or  formally  taught,  but  intuitively  understood 
by  all,  and  invariably  acted  upon  by  the  loyal  and  the  ti-ue. 
The  race  is  not  nearly  civilized,  we  must  remember.  Thus, 
not  to  follow  your  leader  whithersoever  he  may  think  proper 
to  lead ;  to  back  out  of  an  expedition  because  the  end  of  it 
frowns  dubious,  and  the  present  fruit  of  it  is  discomfort ;  to 
quit  a  comrade  on  the  road,  and  return  home  without  him : 
these  are  tricks  which  no  boy  of  spirit  would  be  guilty  of, 
let  him  come  to  any  description  of  mortal  grief  in  conse- 
quence. Better  so  than  have  his  own  conscience  denounc- 
ing him  sneak.  Some  boys  who  behave  boldly  enough  are 
not  troubled  by  this  conscience,  and  the  eyes  and  the  lips 
of  their  fellows  have  to  supply  the  deficiency.  They  do  it 
with  just  as  haunting,  and  even  more  horrible  pertinacity, 
than  the  inner  voice,  and  the  result,  if  the  probation  be  not 
very  severe  and  searching,  is  the  same.  The  leader  can 
rely  on  the  faithfulness  of  his  host :  the  comrade  is  sworn 
to  serve.  Master  Ripton  Thompson  was  natui-ally  loyal. 
The  idea  of  turning  oii  and  forsaking  his  friend  never  once 
crossed  his  mind,  though  his  condition  was  desperate,  and 
his  friend's  behaviour  that  of  a  Bedlamite.  He  announced 
several  times  impatiently  that  they  would  be  too  late  for 
dinner.  His  friend  did  not  budge.  Dinner  seemed  nothing 
to  him.  There  he  lay  plucking  grass,  and  patting  the  old 
dog's  nose,  as  if  incapable  of  conceiving  what  a  thing  hunger 
was.  Ripton  took  half-a-dozen  turns  up  and  down,  and  at 
last  flung  himself  down  beside  the  taciturn  boy,  accepting 
bis  fate. 


THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT.  17 

T^ow,  the  chance  that  works  for  certain  purposes  sent  a 
smart  shower  from  the  sinking  snn,  and  the  wet  sent  two 
strangers  for  shelter  in  the  lane  behind  the  hedge  where  the 
boys  reclined.  One  was  a  travelling  tinker,  who  lit  a  pipe 
and  spread  a  tawny  umbrella.  The  other  was  a  burly  young 
countryman,  pipelcss  and  tentless.  They  saluted  with  a 
nod,  and  began  recounting  for  each  other's  benefit  the  day- 
long doings  of  the  weather,  as  it  had  affected  their  individual 
experience,  and  followed  their  prophecies.  Both  had  anti- 
cipated and  foretold  a  bit  of  rain  before  night,  and  therefore 
both  welcomed  the  wet  with  satisfaction.  A  monotonous 
betweenwhiles  kind  of  talk  they  kept  droning,  in  harmony 
wi.h  the  still  hum  of  the  air.  From  the  weather  theme 
they  fell  upon  the  blessings  of  tobacco ;  how  it  was  the  poor 
man's  friend,  his  company,  his  consolation,  his  comfort,  his 
refuge  at  night,  his  fii-st  thought  in  the  morning. 

"  Better  than  a  wife  !  "  chuckled  the  tinker.  "  No  cur- 
tain-lecturin'  with  a  pipe.     Your  pipe  an't  a  shrew." 

"  That  be  it !  "  the  other  chimed  in.  "  Your  pipe  doan't 
mak'  ye  out  wi'  all  the  cash  Saturday  evenin'." 

"  Take  one,"  said  the  tinker,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment,  handing  a  grimy  short  clay.  Speed-the-Plough 
filled  from  the  tinker's  pouch,  and  continued  his  praises. 

"  Penny  a  day,  and  there  y'are,  primed  !  Better  than  a 
wife  P     Ha,  ha  !  " 

"  And  you  can  get  rid  of  it,  if  ye  wants  for  to,  and  when 
ye  wants,"  added  tinker. 

"  So  ye  can  !  "  Speed-the-Plough  took  him  up,  "  So  ye 
can  !  And  ye  doan't  want  for  to.  Leastways,  t'other  case. 
I  means  pipe." 

"  And,"  continued  tinker,  comprehending  him  perfectly, 
"  it  don't  bring  repentance  after  it." 

"  Not  nohow,  master,  it  doan't !  And  "  —  Speed-the- 
Plough  cocked  his  eye — "  it  doan't  eat  up  half  the  victuals, 
your  pipe  doan't." 

Here  the  honest  yeoman  gesticulated  his  keen  sense  of  a 
clincher,  which  the  tinker  acknowledged ;  and  having,  so  to 
Bpeak,  sealed  up  the  subject  by  saying  the  best  thing  that 
could  be  said,  the  two  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence  to 
the  drip  and  patter  of  the  shower. 

Ripton  solaced  his  wretchedness  by  watching  them  through 
the  briar  hedge.     He  saw  the  tinker  stroking  a  white  cut, 

0 


18  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVFREL. 

and  appealing  to  her,  every  now  and  then,  as  hia  missuH, 
for  an  0]>inion  or  a  confirmation  ;  and  he  thouicht  tliat  a 
curious  sit^lit.  Spcod-du'-lMonnh  was  stretched  at  full 
length,  with  his  boots  in  the  rain,  and  liis  head  amidst  the 
tinker's  pots,  smoking  profoundly  contemplative.  The 
minutes  seemed  to  be  taken  up  alternately  by  the  grey  pull's 
from  their  mouths. 

It  was  the  tinker  who  renewed  the  colloquy.  Said  he, 
"  Times  is  bad  !  " 

His  companion  assented,  "  Sure-ly  !  " 

"  But  it  somehow  comes  round  light,"  resumed  the  tinker. 
"  Why,  look  here.  Where's  the  good  o'  moping  ?  I  sees  it 
all  f;ome  round  right  and  tight.  Now  I  travels  about.  I've 
got  my  beat.  'Casion  calls  me  t'other  day  to  Newcastle  ! — 
Eh?" 

"  Coals  !  "  ejaculated  Speed-the-Plough  sonorously. 

"  Coals  !  "  echoed  the  tinker.  "  You  ask  what  I  goes  there 
for,  mayhap  ?  Never  you  mind.  One  sees  a  mort  o'  life  in 
my  trade.  Not  for  coals  it  isn't.  And  I  don't  carry  'em 
there,  neither.  Anyhow,  I  comes  back.  London's  my  mark. 
Says  I,  I'll  see  a  bit  o'  the  sea,  and  steps  aboard  a  collier. 
We  were  as  nigh  wi-ecked  as  the  pi'ophct  Paul." 

"  A — who's  him  ?  "  the  other  wished  to  know. 

"  Read  your  Bible,"  said  the  tinker.  "  We  pitched  and 
tossed — 'tain't  that  game  at  sea  'tis  on  land,  I  can  tell  ye ! 
I  thinks,  down  we're  agoing — Say  your  prayers.  Bob  Tiles  ! 
That  was  a  night,  to  be  sure  !  But  God's  above  the  devil, 
and  here  I  am,  ye  see." 

Speed-the-Plough  lurched  round  on  his  elbow  and  i-egarded 
him  indiiferently.  "  D'ye  call  that  doctrin'  ?  He  bean't 
al'ays,  or  I  shoo'n't  be  scrapin'  my  heels  wi*  nothin'  to  do, 
and,  what's  warse,  nothin'  to  eat.  Why,  look  hcer.  Luck's 
luck,  and  bad  luck's  the  con-trary.  Varmer  Bollop,  t'other 
day,  has's  rick  burnt  down.  Next  night  his  gi'an'ry's  bur-nt. 
What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do  ?  He  takes  and  goes  and 
hangs  unsel',  and  turns  us  out  of  his  employ.  God  warn't 
above  the  devil  then,  I  thinks,  or  I  can't  make  out  the 
reckonin'." 

The  tinker  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  it  was  a  bad  case. 

"And  a  darn'd  bad  case.  I'll  tak'  my  oath  on't !  "  cried 
Speed-the-Plough.  "  Well,  look  heer !  Heer's  another 
darn'd   bad  case.     I  threshed  for  Vaiiuer  Blaize — Blaize  o' 


THE  MAGTAN  CONFLICT.  1 9 

Beltharpe — afore  I  goes  to  Varmer  Bollop.  Varmer  Blaize 
misses  pilkins.  He  swears  our  chaps  steals  pilkins.  'Twarn't 
me  steals  'em.  What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do  ?  He  takes 
and  tarns  us  off,  me  and  another,  neck  and  crop,  to  scaffle 
about  and  starve,  for  all  he  keeis.  God  warn't  above  the 
devil  then,  I  thinks.     Not  nohow,  as  I  can  see  !  " 

The  tinker  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  was  a  bad  case 
also. 

"  And  you  can't  mend  it,"  added  Speed-the-Plough.  "  It's 
bad,  and  there  it  be.  But  I'll  tell  ye  w  hat,  master.  Bad 
wants  payin'  for."  He  nodded  and  winked  mysteriously. 
"  Bad  has  its  wages  as  well's  honest  work,  I'm  thinkin'. 
Varmer  Bollop  I  don't  owe  no  grudge  to  :  Varmer  Blaize  J 
do.  And  I  shud  like  to  stick  a  Lucifer  in  his  rick  some  dry 
windy  night."  Speed-the-Plough  screwed  up  an  eye  villain- 
ously.  "He  wants  hittin'  in  the  wind, — jest  where  the 
pockut  is,  master,  do  Varmer  Blaize,  and  he'll  cry  out 
'  0  Lor' ! '  Varmer  Blaize  will.  You  won't  get  the  better 
o'  Varmer  Blaize  by  no  means,  as  I  makes  out,  if  ye  doan't 
hit  into  him  jest  there." 

The  tinker  sent  a  rapid  succession  of  white  clouds  from 
his  mouth,  and  said  that  would  be  taking  the  devil's  side  of 
a  bad  case.  Speed-the-Plough  observed  energetically  that,  if 
Farmer  Blaize  was  on  the  other,  he  should  be  on  that  side. 

There  was  a  young  gentleman  close  by,  who  thought  with 
him.  The  hope  of  Raynham  had  lent  a  careless  half-com- 
pelled attention  to  the  foregoing  dialogue,  wherein  a  common 
labourer  and  a  travelling  tinker  had  propounded  and  dis- 
cussed one  of  the  most  ancient  theories  of  transmundane 
dominion  and  influence  on  mundane  affairs.  He  now  started 
to  his  feet,  and  came  tearing  through  the  briar  hedge,  calling 
out  for  one  of  them  to  direct  them  the  nearest  road  to  Bursley. 
The  tinker  was  kindling  preparations  for  his  tea,  under  the 
tawny  umbrella.  A  loaf  was  set  forth,  on  which  Ripton's 
eyes,  stuck  in  the  edge,  fastened  ravenously.  Speed-the- 
Plough  volunteered  infoi-mation  that  Bursley  was  a  good 
three  mile  from  where  they  stood,  and  a  good  eight  mile  from 
Lobourne. 

"  H'l  give  you  half-a-crown  for  that  loaf,  my  good  fellow," 
Baid  Richard  to  the  tinker. 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  quoth  the  tinker,  "  eh,  missus  P  " 

His  cat  replied  by  humping  her  back  at  the  dog. 
C  2 


20  TTIK  ORDF-M,  OF  RTCnAnD  FEVFRETi. 

The  li:ilf-oro\vn  was  tossed  down,  and  Ripton,  -who  hafl 
juRt  sneeeeded  in  freeing  his  limbs  from  the  briar,  prickly  as 
a  hedLjehog,  collared  the  loaf. 

"Those  young  squires  be  sharp-set,  and  no  niistako,"  Raid 
the  tinker  to  his  companion.  "  Come  !  we'll  to  liursley  after 
'em,  and  talk  it  out  over  a  pot  o'  beer."  Speed-the-Plough 
was  nothing  loth,  and  in  a  short  time  they  were  following  the 
two  lads  on  the  road  to  liursley,  while  a  horizontal  blaze 
shot  across  the  autumn  laud  from  the  Western  edge  of  the 
rain-cloud 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ARSON. 


Search  for  the  missing  boys  had  been  made  everywliere  over 
Raynham,  and  Sir  Au.stin  was  in  grievous  discontent.  None 
had  seen  them  save  Austin  Wentworth  and  Mr.  Morton. 
The  baronet  sat  construing  their  account  of  the  flight  of  the 
lads  when  they  were  hailed,  and  resolved  it  into  an  act  of 
rebellion  on  the  part  of  his  son.  At  dinner  he  drank  the 
young  heir's  health  in  ominous  silence.  Adrian  Harley  stood 
up  in  his  place  to  propose  the  health.  His  speech  was  a  fine 
piece  of  rhetoric.  He  warmed  in  it  till,  after  the  Ciceronic 
model,  inanimate  objects  were  personitied,  and  Richard's 
table-napkin  and  vacant  chair  were  invoked  to  follow  the 
steps  of  a  peerless  father,  and  uphold  with  his  dignity  the 
honour  of  the  Feverels.  Austin  Wentworth,  whom  a  soldier's 
death  compelled  to  take  his  father's  place  in  support  of  the 
tea  it,  was  tame  after  such  magniloquence.  But  the  reply, 
the  thanks  which  young  Richard  should  have  delivered  in 
person  were  not  forthcoming.  Adrian's  oratory  had  given 
but  a  momentary  life  to  napkin  and  chair.  The  company  of 
honoured  friends,  and  aunts,  and  uncles,  and  remotest  cousins, 
were  glad  to  disperse  and  seek  amusement  in  music  and  tea. 
Sir  Austin  did  his  utmost  to  be  hospitably  cheerful,  and 
requested  them  to  dance.  If  he  had  desired  them  to  laugh 
lie  would  have  been  obeyed,  and  in  as  hearty  a  manner. 


ARSON.  21 

"How  triste!"  said  Mrs.  Doria  Forey  to  Lobourno'a 
carate,  as  that  most  enamoured  automaton  went  through  his 
paces  beside  her  with  professional  stiffness. 

"  One  who  does  not  suffer  can  hardly  assent,"  the  curate 
answered,  basking  in  her  beams. 

"  Ah,  you  are  good  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady.  "  Look  at  my 
Clare.  She  will  not  dance  on  her  cousin's  birthday  with  any 
one  but  him.     What  are  we  to  do  to  enliven  these  people  ?  " 

"  Alas,  madam  !  you  cannot  do  for  all  what  you  do  for 
one,"  the  curate  sighed,  and  wherever  she  wandered  in 
discourse,  drew  her  back  with  silken  strings  to  gaze  on  his 
enamoured  soul. 

He  was  the  only  gratified  stranger  present.  The  others 
had  designs  on  the  young  heir.  Lady  Attenbury  of  Longford 
House  had  brought  her  highly-polished  specimen  of  market- 
svare,  the  Lady  Juliana  Jaye,  for  a  first  introduction  to  him, 
thinking  he  had  arrived  at  an  age  to  estimate  and  pine  for 
her  black  eyes  and  pretty  pert  mouth.  The  Lady  Juliana 
had  to  pair  off  with  a  dapper  Papworth,  and  her  mama 
was  subjected  to  the  gallantries  of  Sir  Miles,  who  talked  land 
and  steam-engines  to  her  till  she  was  sick,  and  had  to  be 
impertinent  in  self-defence.  Lady  Blandish,  the  delightful 
widow,  sat  apart  with  Adrian,  and  enjoyed  his  sarcasms  on 
the  company.  By  ten  at  night  the  poor  show  ended,  and  the 
rooms  were  dark,  dark  as  the  prognostics  multitudinously 
hinted  by  the  disappointed  and  chilled  guests  concerning 
the  probable  future  of  the  hope  of  Raynham.  Little  Clare 
kissed  her  mama,  curtsied  to  the  lingering  curate,  and  went 
to  bed  like  a  very  good  girl.  Immediately  the  maid  had 
departed,  little  Clare  deliberately  exchanged  night  attire  for 
that  of  day.  She  was  noted  as  an  obedient  child.  Her 
light  was  always  allowed  to  burn  in  her  room  for  half  an 
hour,  to  counteract  her  fears  of  the  dark.  She  took  the  light, 
and  stole  on  tiptoe  to  Richard's  room.  No  Richard  was 
there.  She  peeped  in  further  and  further.  A  trifling  agita- 
tion of  the  curtains  shot  her  back  thi-ough  the  door  and  along 
the  passage  to  her  own  bedchamber  with  extreme  expedition. 
She  was  not  much  alarmed,  but  feeling  guilty  she  was  on 
her  guard.  In  a  short  time  she  was  prowling  about  the 
passages  again.  Richard  had  slighted  and  offended  the  littlci 
lady,  anil  was  to  be  asked  wlu^ther  he  did  not  repent  sue;!) 
conduot  toward  his  cousin ;  not  to  be  asked  wheliier  he  had 


22  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

forirottcn  to  receive  his  birthday  kiss  from  her;  for,  if  he  did 
not  choose  to  remember  (bat,  Miss  Chiro  woukl  never  remind 
him  of  it,  and  to-ni<j^ht  should  be  hih  hist  chance  of  a, 
reconciliation.  Thus  slie  meditated,  sitting  on  a  stair,  and 
jiresently  heard  llichard's  voice  below  in  the  hall,  shouting 
for  supper. 

"  Master  Richard  has  returned,"  old  Benson  the  butler 
tolled  out  intelligence  to  Sir  Austin. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  baronet. 

"  He  complains  of  being  hungry,"  the  butler  hesitated, 
with  a  look  of  solemn  disgust. 

"  Let  him  eat." 

Heavy  Benson  hesitated  still  more  as  he  announced  that 
the  boy  had  called  for  wine.  It  was  an  unprecedented 
thing.  Sir  Austin's  brows  were  poi-tending  an  arch,  but 
Adrian  suggested  that  he  wanted  possibly  to  di'ink  his  birth- 
day, and  claret  was  conceded. 

The  boys  were  in  the  vortex  of  a  partridge-pie  when  Adrian 
strolled  in  to  them.  They  had  now  changed  characters. 
Richard  was  uproarious.  He  drank  a  health  with  every 
glass  ;  his  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes  1  ni  1 1  !ant.  Ripton 
looked  very  much  like  a  rogue  on  the  tremble  of  detection, 
but  his  honest  hunger  and  the  partridge. -pie  shielded  him 
awhile  from  Adrian's  scrutinizing  glance.  Adrian  saw  there 
was  matter  for  study,  if  it  were  only  oa  INIaster  Ripton 's 
betraying  nose,  and  sat  down  to  hear  and  mark. 

"  Good  spoi't,  gentlemen,  I  trust  to  hear  ?  "  he  began  his 
quiet  banter,  and  provoked  a  loud  peal  of  laughter  from 
Richard. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  I  say.  Rip  :  '  Havin'  good  sport,  gentlemen, 
are  ye  ?  '  You  remember  the  farmer  !  Your  health,  parson  ! 
We  haven't  had  our  sport  yet.  We're  going  to  have  some 
first-rate  sport.  Oh,  well  !  we  haven't  much  show  of  birds. 
We  shot  for  pleasure,  and  returned  thorn  to  the  proprietors. 
You're  fond  of  game,  parson  !  Ripton  is  a  dead  shot  in  what 
cousin  Austin  calls  the  Kingdom  of  '  would-have-done '  and 
'  might-have-been.'  Up  went  the  birds,  and  cries  Rip,  '  I've 
forgotten  to  load  !  '  Oh,  ho  ! — Rip  !  some  more  claret. — Do 
just  leave  that  nose  of  youi-s  alone. — Your  health,  Ripton 
Thompson  !  The  birds  hadn't  the  decency  to  wait  for  him, 
and  BO,  parson,  it's  their  fault,  and  not  Rip's,  you  haven't  a 


ARSON.  23 

dozen  brace  at  your  feet.  What  have  you  been  doing  at 
home,  Cousin  Rady  ?  " 

"  Playing  Hamlet,  in  the  absence  of  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark.  The  day  without  you,  my  dear  boy,  must  be  dull, 
you  know." 

"  *He  speaks:  can  I  trust  what  he  says  is  sincere  ? 

There's  an  edge  to  his  smile  which  cuts  much  like  a  sneer.' 

Sandoe's  poems  !  Tou  know  the  couplet,  Mr.  Rady.  Why 
shouldn't  I  quote  Sandoe  ?  Tou  know  you  like  him,  Rady. 
But,  if  you've  missed  me,  I'm  sorry.  Rip  and  I  have  had  a 
beautiful  day.  We've  made  new  acquaintances.  We've  seen 
the  world.  I'm  the  monkey  that  has  seen  the  world,  and  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  First,  there's  a  gentleman 
who  takes  a  rifle  for  a  fowling-piece.  Next,  there's  a  farmer 
who  warns  everybody,  gentleman  and  beggar,  off  his  pre- 
mises.  Next,  there's  a  tinker  and  a  ploughman,  who  think 
that  God  is  always  fighting  with  the  devil  which  shall  com- 
mand  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth.  The  tinker's  for  God,  and 
the  ploughman  " 

"  I'll  drink  your  health,  Ricky,"  said  Adrian,  interrupting. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,  parson ; — I  mean  no  harm,  Adrian.  I'm 
only  telling  what  I've  heard." 

"  No  harm,  my  dear  boy,"  returned  Adrian.  "  I'm  per- 
fectly aware  that  Zoroaster  is  not  dead.  You  have  been 
listening  to  a  common  creed.  Drink  the  Fire- worshippers, 
if  you  will." 

"  Here's  to  Zoroaster,  then  !  "  cried  Richard.  "  I  say, 
Rippy  !  we'll  drink  the  Fire- worshippers  to-night,  won't 
we  ?  " 

A  fearful  conspiratorial  frown,  that  would  not  have  dis- 
graced Guido  Fawkes,  was  darted  back  from  the  plastic 
features  of  Master  Ripton. 

Richard  gave  his  lungs  loud  play. 

"  Why,  what  did  you  say  about  Blaizes,  Rippy?  Didn't 
you  say  it  was  fun  ?  " 

Another  hideous  and  silencing  frown  was  Ripton's  answer. 
Adrian  watched  the  innocent  youths,  and  knew  that  there 
was  talking  under  the  table.  "  See,"  thought  he,  "  this  boy 
has  ta!^t.ed  his  first  sci'aggy  morsel  of  life  to-day,  and  already 
be  talks  like  an  old  stager,  and  has,  if  I  mi.slake  not,  been 
acting   too.      My   respected    chief,"   ho   apostrophised   Sir 


f4  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICIIAllD  FEVEREL. 

Austin,  "combustibles  arc  only  the  more  dang-erous  foi  com- 
pression.  Tliis  boy  will  be  ravenous  for  Earth  when  ho  is  let 
loose,  and  very  soon  make  his  share  of  it  look  as  foolish  as 
yonder  game-pie  !  " — a  pi-ojihecy  Adrian  kept  to  himself. 

Uncle  AlLTcrnon  shainl)led  in  to  see  his  nephew  before  the 
supper  was  finished,  and  his  more  genial  presence  brought 
out  a  little  of  the  plot. 

"  Look  here,  uncle  !  "  said  Richard.  "  Would  you  let  a 
churlish  old  brute  of  a  farmer  strike  you  without  making 
him  suffer  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  I  should  return  the  compliment,  my  lad,"  replied 
his  uncle. 

"  Of  course  you  would!  So  would  I.  And  he  shall  suffer 
for  it."  The  boy  looked  savage,  and  his  uncle  patted  him 
down. 

"  I've  boxed  his  son  ;  I'll  box  him,"  said  Richard,  shouting 
for  more  wine. 

"  What,  boy  !     Is  it  old  Blaize  has  been  putting  you  up  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  uncle  !  "  the  boy  nodded  mysteriously. 

Look  there  !  Adrian  read  on  Ripton's  face,  he  says  '  never 
mind,'  and  lets  it  out ! 

"  Did  we  beat  to-day,  uncle  ?  ** 

"  Yes,  boy  ;  and  we'd  beat  them  any  day  they  bowl  fair, 
I'd  beat  them  on  one  leg.  There's  only  Natkins  and  Feather- 
dene  among  them  worth  a  farthing." 

"  We  beat !  "  cries  Richard.  "  Then  we'll  have  some  more 
wine,  and  drink  their  healths." 

The  bell  was  rung ;  wine  ordered.  Presently  comes  in 
heavy  Benson,  to  say  supplies  are  cut  off.  One  bottle,  and 
no  more.     The  Captain  whistled  :   Adrian  shrugged. 

The  bottle,  however,  was  procured  by  Adrian  subsequently. 
Ho  liked  studying  intoxicated  urchins. 

One  subject  Avas  at  Richai-d's  heart,  about  which  he  was 
reserved  in  the  midst  of  his  riot.  Too  proud  to  inquire  how 
his  father  had  taken  his  absence,  he  burned  to  hear  whether 
he  was  in  disgiace.  He  led  to  it  repeatedly,  and  it  was 
constantly  evaded  by  Algernon  and  Adrian.  At  last,  when 
the  boy  declared  a  desire  to  wish  his  father  good-night, 
Adrian  had  to  tell  him  that  he  was  to  go  straight  to  bed  from 
the  supper-table.  Young  Ricliard's  face  fell  at  that,  and  his 
gaiety  forsook  him.  He  marched  to  his  room  without  another 
woxd. 


ARSON.  25 

Adrian  gave  Sir  Austin  an  abie  version  o£  his  son's  beha- 
viour and  adventures  ;  dwelling*  upon  this  sudden  taciturnity 
when  he  heard  of  his  father's  resolution  not  to  see  him.  The 
wise  youth  saw  that  his  chief  was  mollified  behind  his  move- 
less mask,  and  went  to  bed,  and  Horace,  leaving  Sir  Austin 
in  his  study.  Long  hours  the  baronet  sat  alone.  The  house 
had  not  its  usual  influx  of  Feverels  that  day.  Austin  Went- 
worth  was  staying  at  Poer  Hall,  and  had  only  come  over  for 
an  hour.  At  midnight  the  house  breathed  sleep.  Sir  Austin 
put  on  his  cloak  and  cap,  and  took  the  lamp  to  make  his 
rounds.  He  apprehended  nothing  special,  but  with  a  mind 
never  at  rest  he  constituted  himself  the  sentinel  of  Rayn- 
ham.  He  passed  the  chamber  where  the  Gieat-Aunt  Grantley 
lay,  who  was  to  swell  Richard's  fortune,  and  so  perform  her 
chief  business  on  earth.  By  her  door  he  murmured,  "  Good 
creature  !  you  sleep  with  a  sense  of  duty  done,"  and  paced 
on,  reflecting,  "  She  has  not  made  money  a  demon  of  discord," 
and  blessed  her.  He  had  his  thoughts  at  Hippias's  somno- 
lent door,  and  to  them  the  world  might  have  subscribed. 

A  monomaniac  at  large,  watching  over  sane  people  in 
slumber  !  thinks  Adrian  Harley,  as  he  hears  Sir  Austin's 
footfall,  and  truly  that  was  a  strange  object  to  see. — Where 
is  the  fortress  that  has  not  one  weak  gate  ?  where  the  man 
who  is  sound  at  each  particular  angle  ?  Ay,  meditates  the 
recumbent  cynic,  more  or  less  mad  is  not  every  mother's 
son  ?  Favourable  circumstances — good  air,  good  company, 
two  or  three  good  rules  rigidly  adhered  to — l;cep  the  woi"ld 
out  of  Bedlam.  But,  let  the  world  fly  into  a  passion,  and  is 
not  Bedlam  the  safest  abode  for  it  ? 

Sir  Austin  ascended  the  stairs,  and  bent  his  steps  leisurely 
towards  the  chamber  where  his  son  was  lying  in  the  left 
wing  of  the  Abbey.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery  which  led  to 
it  he  discovered  a  dim  light.  Doubting  it  an  illusion,  Sir 
Austin  accelei'atcd  his  pace.  This  wing  had  aforetime  a  bad 
character.  Notwithstanding  what  years  had  done  to  polish 
it  into  fair  repute,  the  Raynham  kitchen  stuck  to  tradition 
still,  and  preserved  certain  stories  of  ghosts  seen  there,  and 
thought  to  have  been  seen,  that  efl'ectually  blackened  it  in 
the  susceptible  minds  of  new  housemaids  and  undcr-cooks, 
whose  fears  would  not  allow  the  sinner  to  wash  his  sins. 
Sir  Austin  had  heard  of  the  tales  circuhited  by  his  donu^stica 
underground.     He  cherished  his  own  belief,  but  discouraged 


26  TIIK  OHPKAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVKUEL. 

theirs,  and  it  was  treason  at  Raynliam  to  be  caught  traduc 
ing  the  left  wing.  As  the  baronet  advanced,  the  fact  of  a 
b'glit  burning  was  clear  to  him.  A  slight  descent  brought 
him  into  the  passage,  and  he  beheld  a  poor  human  candle 
standing  outside  his  son's  chamber.  At  the  same  moment  a 
door  closed  hastily.  He  entered  Richard's  room.  The  boy 
was  absent.  The  bed  was  unpressed  :  no  clothes  about  : 
nothing  to  show  that  he  had  been  there  that  night.  Sir 
Austin  felt  vaguely  apprehensive.  Has  he  gone  to  my  room 
to  await  uie  ?  thought  the  father's  heart.  Something  like  a 
tear  quivered  in  his  arid  eyes  as  he  meditated  and  lioped 
this  might  be  so.  His  own  sleeping-room  faced  that  of  his 
son.  He  strode  to  it  with  a  quick  heart.  It  was  empty. 
My  son  !  my  son  !  what  is  this  ?  he  murmured.  Alarm  dis- 
lodged anger  from  his  jealous  heart,  and  dread  of  evil  put  a 
thousand  questions  to  him  that  were  answered  in  aii\  After 
pjicing  up  and  down  his  i-oom  he  detei-mincd  to  go  and  ask 
the  boy  Thompson,  as  he  called  Ripton,  what  was  known  to 
him. 

The  chamber  assigned  to  Master  Ripton  Thompson  was 
at  the  northera  extremity  of  the  passage,  and  overlooked 
Lobourue  and  the  valley  to  the  west.  The  bed  stood  between 
the  window  and  the  door.  Sir  Austin  found  the  door  ajar, 
and  the  interior  dai-k.  To  his  surprise,  the  boy  Thompson's 
couch,  as  revealed  by  the  rays  of  his  lamp,  was  likewise 
vacant.  He  was  turning  back  when  he  fancied  he  heard 
the  sibilation  of  a  whispering  in  the  room.  Sir  Austin 
cloaked  the  lamp  and  trod  silently  toward  the  window. 
The  heads  of  his  son  Richard  and  the  boy  Thompson  were 
seen  crouched  against  the  glass,  holding  excited  converse 
together.  Sir  Austin  listened,  but  he  listened  to  a  language 
of  which  he  possessed  not  the  key.  Their  talk  was  of  fire, 
and  of  delay :  of  expected  agrarian  astonishment :  of  a 
farmer's  huge  wrath :  of  violence  exercised  towards  gentle- 
men, and  of  vengeance  :  talk  that  the  boys  jerked  out  by  fits, 
and  that  came  as  broken  links  of  a  chain  impossible  to  con- 
nect. But  they  awoke  curiosity.  The  baronet  condescended 
to  play  the  spy  upon  his  son. 

Over  Lobourne  and  the  valley  lay  black  night  and  innu- 
merable stars. 

"  How  ioUy  I  feel !"  exclaimed  Ripton,  inspired  by  claret; 


A11S0N\  27 

and  then,  after  a  luxurious  pause — "  I  think  that  fellow  has 
pocketed  his  guinea,  and  cut  his  lucky." 

Richard  allowed  a  long  minute  to  pass,  during  which  the 
baronet  waited  anxiously  for  his  voice,  hardly  recognising  it 
when  he  heard  its  altered  tones. 

"  If  he  has,  I'll  go ;  and  I'll  do  it  myself." 

"You  would?"  returned  Master  Ripton,  "Well,  I'm 
hanged  ! — I  say,  if  you  went  to  school,  wouldn't  you  get  into 
rows  !  Perhaps  he  hasn't  found  the  place  where  the  bo.^ 
was  stuck  in.  I  think  he  funks  it.  I  almost  wish  you 
hadn't  done  it,  upon  my  honour — eh  ?  Look  there  !  what 
was  that  ?  That  looked  like  something. — I  say  !  do  you 
think  we  shall  ever  be  found  out  ?  " 

Master  Ripton  intoned  this  abrupt  interrogation  very 
seriously. 

"  I  don't  think  about  it,"  said  Richard,  all  his  faculties 
bent  on  signs  from  Lobourne. 

"  Well,  bat,"  Ripton  persisted,  "  suppose  we  are  found 
out  ?  " 

"  If  we  are,  I  must  pay  for  it." 

Sir  Austin  breathed  the  better  for  this  reply.  He  was 
beginning  to  gather  a  clue  to  the  dialogue.  His  son  was 
engaged  in  a  plot,  and  was,  moreover,  the  leader  of  the  plot. 
He  listened  for  further  enlightenment. 

"  What  was  the  fellow's  name  ?  "  inquired  Ripton. 

His  companion  answered,  "  Tom  Bakewell." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  continued  Ripton.  "  You  let  it  all 
clean  out  to  your  cousin  and  uncle  at  supper. — How  capital 
claret  is  with  partridge-pie  !  What  a  lot  I  ate — Didn't  you 
see  me  frown  ?  " 

The  young  sensualist  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude  to  his 
late  refection,  and  the  slightest  woi-d  recalled  him  to  it. 
Richard  answered  him — 

"  Yes  ;  and  felt  your  kick.  It  doesn't  matter.  Rady'a 
safe,  and  uncle  never  blabs." 

"  Well,  my  plan  is  to  keep  it  close.  You're  never  safe  if 
you  don't. — I  never  drank  much  claret  before,"  Ripton  was 
off  again.  "  Won't  I  now,  though  I  claret's  my  wine.  You 
know,  it  may  come  out  any  day,  and  then  we're  done  for," 
he  rather  incongruously  appended. 

Richard  only  took  up  the  business-thread  of  his  friend's 
rambling  chatter,  and  answered — 


28  TIIK  ORDKAL  OF  RICI1AIU1  FKVKHEL. 

"  You've  got  nothing  to  do  witli  it,  if  wc  are." 

"  Haven't  I,  though !  1  didn't  stick  in  the  hox,  but  I'm 
an  accomjilit-e,  that's  clear.  Besides,"  added  Ripton,  "do 
yon  think  I  shouUl  k-ave  you  to  bear  it  all  on  your  shoulders  ? 
I  ain't  tiiat  sort  of  chap,  Ricky,  I  can  tell  you." 

Sir  Austin  thought  more  highly  of  the  boy  Thompson. 
Still  it  looked  a  detestable  conspiracy,  and  the  altered  manner 
of  his  son  impressed  him  strangely.  He  was  not  the  hoy  of 
yesterday.  To  Sir  Austin  it  seemed  as  if  a  gulf  had  sud- 
denly opened  between  them.  The  boy  liad  embarked,  and 
was  on  the  waters  of  life  in  his  own  vessel.  It  was  as  vain 
to  call  him  back  as  to  attempt  to  eiase  what  Time  has  wi-itten 
with  the  Judgement  Blood  !  This  child,  for  whom  he  had 
prayed  nightly  in  such  a  fervour  and  humbleness  to  God,  the 
dangers  were  about  him,  the  temptations  thick  on  him,  and 
the  devil  on  board  piloting.  If  a  day  had  done  so  much, 
what  would  years  do  ?  AVere  prayers  and  all  the  watchful- 
ness he  had  expended  of  no  avail  ? 

A  sensation  of  infinite  melancholy  overcame  the  poor 
gentleman — a  thought  that  he  was  lighting  with  a  fate  in 
this  beloved  boj'. 

He  was  half  disposed  to  arrest  the  two  conspii-ators  on  the 
spot,  and  make  them  confess,  and  absolve  themselves  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  him  better  to  keep  an  unseen  eye  over  his  son : 
Sir  Austin's  old  system  prevailed. 

Adrian  characterized  this  system  well,  in  saying  that  Sir 
Austin  wished  to  be  Providence  to  his  son. 

If  imi  leasurable  love  were  perfect  wisdom,  one  human 
being  might  almost  impersonate  Providence  to  another. 
Alas  !  love,  divine  as  it  is,  can  do  no  more  than  lighten  tlie 
house  it  inhabits — must  take  its  shape,  sometimes  intensify 
its  narrowness — can  spiritualize,  but  not  expel,  the  old  life- 
long lodgers  above-stairs  and  below. 

Sir  Austin  decided  to  continue  quiescent. 

Tlie  valley  still  lay  black  beneath  the  large  autumnal 
stars,  and  the  exclamations  of  the  boys  were  becoming  fevered 
and  impatient.  By-and-by  one  insisted  that  he  had  seen  a 
twinkle.  The  direction  he  gave  was  out  of  their  anticipa- 
tions. Again  the  twinkle  was  announced.  i^)th  boys  started 
to  their  feet.     It  was  a  twinkle  in  the  right  direction  now. 

"He's   done  it!"    cried    Richard    iii   y-ixat  beat.     *' JTow 


ABSON,  29 

yon  may  say  old  Blaize'll  soon  be  old  Blazes,  Rip.  1  hope 
he's  asleep." 

"  I'm  sure  he's  snoring! — Look  thei'e  !  He's  alight  fast 
enough.  He's  dry.  He'll  burn. — I  say,"  Ripton  re-assumed 
the  serious  intonation,  "  do  you  think  they'll  ever  suspect 
us  '['  " 

"  What  if  they  do  ?     We  must  brunt  it." 

"  Of  course  we  will.  But,  I  say  !  I  wish  you  hadn't  given 
them  the  scent,  though.  I  like  to  look  innocent.  I  can't 
when  I  know  people  suspect  me.  Lord  !  look  there  !  Isn't 
it  just  beginning  to  flare  up  !  " 

The  farmer's  grounds  were  indeed  gradually  standing  out 
in  sombre  shadows. 

"  I'll  fetch  my  telescope,"  said  Richard.  Ripton,  somehow 
not  liking  to  be  left  alone,  caught  hold  of  him. 

"No;  don't  go  and  lose  the  best  of  it.  Here,  I'll  throw 
open  the  window,  and  we  can  see." 

The  window  was  flung  open,  and  the  boys  instantly 
stretched  half  their  bodies  out  of  it ;  Ripton  appearing  to 
devour  the  rising  flames  with  his  mouth  :  Richard  with  his 
eyes. 

Opaque  and  statuesque  stood  the  figure  of  the  baronet 
behind  them.  The  wind  was  low.  Dense  masses  of  smoke 
hung  amid  the  darting  snakes  of  fire,  and  a  red  malign  light 
was  on  the  neighbouring  leafage.  No  figui'es  could  be  seen. 
Appai-ently  the  flames  had  nothing  to  contend  against,  for 
they  were  making  terrible  strides  into  the  darkness. 

"  Oh  !  "  shouted  Richard,  overcome  by  excitement,  "  if  I 
had  my  telescope  !  We  must  have  it !  Let  me  go  and  fetch 
it !     I  will !  " 

The  boys  struggled  together,  and  Sir  Austin  stepped  back. 
As  he  did  so,  a  cry  was  lieard  in  the  passage.  He  hurried 
out,  closed  the  chamber,  and  came  upon  little  Cluro  Ijing 
senseless  along  the  floor. 


iJO  THE  ORDEAL  OF  HICIIAUD  I'EVEKEL, 

CnAPTKR  V. 

ADRIAN   PLIKS  HIS  llOOIT. 

lu  tlio  morning:  that  follo-Rcd  this  niglit,  prcnt  gossip 
was  in*^erchangt'd  between  Raynliam  and  Lobourne.  The 
villajje  told  liow  Farmer  lihiize,  of  Belthorpe  Farm,  had  his 
rick  feloniously  set  tire  to;  his  stables  had  caught  fire,  him- 
self  had  been  all  but  roasted  alive  in  the  attempt  to  i-escue 
his  cattle,  of  which  numbers  had  perished  in  the  flames. 
Raynham  counterbalanced  arson  with  an  authentic  ghost 
seen  by  Miss  Clare  in  the  left  wing  of  the  Abbey — the  ghost 
of  a  lady,  dressed  in  deep  moui-ning,  a  scar  on  hei-  forehead, 
and  a  bloody  handkerchief  at  her  breast,  frightful  to  behold! 
and  no  wonder  the  child  was  frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and 
lay  in  a  desperate  state  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  London 
doctors.  It  was  added  that  the  servants  had  all  threatened 
to  leave  in  a  body,  and  that  Sir  Austin  to  appease  them  had 
pi-omised  to  pull  down  the  entire  left  wing,  like  a  gentle- 
man ;  for  no  decent  creature,  said  Lobourne,  could  consent 
to  live  in  a  haunted  house. 

Rumour  for  the  nonce  had  a  stronger  spice  of  truth  than 
usual.  Poor  little  Clare  lay  ill,  and  the  calamity  tliat  had 
befallen  Farmer  Blaize,  as  regards  his  rick  and  his  cattle, 
was  not  much  exaggerated.  Sir  Austin  caused  an  account 
of  it  to  be  given  him  at  breakfast,  and  appeared  so  scrupu- 
lously anxious  to  hear  the  exact  extent  of  injury  sustained 
by  the  farmer  that  heavy  Benson  went  down  to  inspect  the 
scene.  Mr.  Benson  returned,  and,  acting  under  Adrian's 
malicious  advice,  framed  a  formal  report  of  the  catastrophe 
in  which  the  farmer's  breeches  figured,  and  certain  coolin;.'. 
applications  to  a  part  of  the  farmer's  person.  Sir  Austin 
perused  it  without  a  smile.  He  took  occasion  to  have  it 
read  out  before  the  two  boys,  who  listened  very  demurely, 
as  to  an  ordinary  newspaper  incident ;  only  when  the  report 
particulariz-ed  the  garments  damaged,  and  the  unwonted 
distressing  position  Fai-mer  Blaize  was  reduced  to  in  his 
bed,  an  indecorous  fit  of  sneezing  laid  hold  of  ]\Iaster  Ripton 
Thompson,  and  Richard  bit  his  lip  and  bui-st  into  loud 
laughter,  Ripton  joining  him,  lost  to  consequences. 


ADRIAN  PLIES  HTS  HOOK.  rfl 

"I  trust  you  feel  for  this  poor  man,"  said  Sir  Austin  to 
I) is  son,  somewhat  sternly. 

"  I'm  sorry  about  tlie  poor  horses,  sir,"  Richard  replied. 

It  was  a  difficult  task  for  Sir  Austin  to  keep  his  old 
countenance  toward  the  hope  of  Raynluxm,  knowini^-  him  the 
accomplice-incendiary,  and  believing  the  deed  to  have  been 
unprovoked  and  wanton.  But  he  must  do  so,  he  knew%  to 
let  the  boy  have  a  fair  ti-ial  against  himself.  Be  it  said, 
moreover,  that  the  baronet's  possession  of  his  son's  secret 
flattei'ed  him.  It  allowed  him  to  act,  and  in  a  measure  to 
feel,  like  Providence ;  enabled  him  to  observe  and  provide 
for  the  movements  of  creatures  in  the  dark.  He  tbei-efore 
treated  the  boy  as  he  commonly  did,  and  young  Richard 
saw  no  change  in  his  father  to  make  him  think  he  was 
suspected. 

The  game  was  not  so  easy  against  Adrian.  Adrian  did 
not  shoot  or  fish.  Voluntai-ily  he  did  nothing  to  woi-k  off 
the  destructive  nervous  fluid,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  which 
is  in  man's  nature  ;  so  that  two  culprit  boys  once  in  his 
power  were  not  likely  to  taste  the  gentle  hand  of  mercy,  and 
Richard  and  Ripton  paid  for  many  a  trout  and  partj-idge 
spared.  At  every  minute  of  the  day  Ripton  was  thrown 
into  sweats  of  suspicion  that  discovery  was  imminent,  by 
some  stray  reniark  or  message  from  Adrian.  He  was  as  a  fish 
with  the  hook  in  his  gills,  mysteriously  caught  without 
having  nibbled ;  and  dive  into  what  depths  he  would  he 
was  sensible  of  a  summoning  force  that  compelled  him 
perpetually  towards  the  gasping  surface,  which  lie  seemed 
inevitably  ap[)roaching  when  the  dinner-bell  sounded.  There 
the  talk  was  all  of  Farmer  Blaize.  If  it  dropped,  Adi-ian 
revived  it,  and  his  caressing  way  with  Ripton  was  just  such 
as  a  keen  sportsman  feels  towards  the  creature  that  has 
owned  his  skill,  and  is  making  its  appearance  foi-  the  woi-ld 
to  acknowledge  the  same.  Sir  Austin  saw  the  manoeuvres, 
and  admired  Adrian's  shrewdness.  But  he  had  to  chock 
the  young  natural  lawyer,  for  the  effect  of  so  much  masked 
examination  upon  Richai-d  was  growing  baneful.  This  fish 
also  felt  the  hook  in  its  gills,  but  this  fish  was  more  of  a 
pike,  and  lay  in  different  waters,  where  there  were  old 
stumps  and  black  roots  to  wind  itself  about,  and  defy  alike 
strong   pulling   and    delicate    handling.      In   other   words, 


32  TIIR  ORHEAL  OF  RICIlAnD  FRVHREL. 

liicliard  showed  symptoms  of  a  disposition  to  talcc  rcfnge 
in  lies. 

"  You  know  the  f^rounds,  my  dear  boy,"  Adrian  observed 
to  him.  "  Tell  me;  do  you  think  it  easy  to  get  to  the  rick 
urijieioeived  ?  I  hear  they  suspect  one  of  the  farmer's 
turned-off  hands." 

*'  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  the  grounds,"  Richard  sullenly 
rej)lied. 

"  Not  ?  "  Adrian  counterfeited  courteous  astonishment. 
*'  I  thought  Mr.  Thompson  said  you  were  over  there  yester- 
day ?  " 

Ripton,  glad  to  speak  a  truth,  hurriedly  assured  Adrian 
that  it  was  not  he  had  said  so. 

"Not  ?     You  had  good  sport,  gentlemen,  hadn't  you  ?  " 

"Oh  j-es  !"  mumbled  the  wretched  victims,  reddening  as 
they  remembered,  in  Adrian's  slightly  drawled  rusticity  of 
tone.  Farmer  Blaize's  first  address  to  them. 

"I  suppose  you  were  among  the  Fire-worshij)pers  last 
night,  too  ?  "  persisted  Adrian.  "  In  some  countries,  I  hear, 
they  manage  their  best  sport  at  night-time,  and  beat  up  for 
game  with  toi-ches.  It  must  be  a  fine  sight.  After  all,  the 
country  would  be  dull  if  we  hadn't  a  rip  here  and  there  to 
treat  us  to  a  little  conflagration." 

"  A  rip  !  "  laughed  Richard,  to  his  friend's  disgust  and 
al.irm  at  his  daring.     "  You  don't  mean  this  Rip,  do  you  ?" 

"  !Mr.  Thompson  fire  a  rick  ?  I  should  as  soon  suspect  you, 
my  dear  boy. — You  are  aware,  young  gentlemen,  that  it  is 
rather  a  serious  thing  Eh  ?  In  this  country,  you  know,  the 
landlord  has  always  been  the  pet  of  the  laws.  By  the  way," 
Adrian  continued,  as  if  diverging  to  another  topic,  "  you  met 
two  gentlemen  of  the  road  in  your  explorations  yesterday, 
^fagians.  Now,  if  I  wej'e  a  magistrate  of  the  county,  like  Sir 
utiles  Papworth,  my  suspicions  would  light  upon  those  gentle- 
men. A  tinker  and  a  ploughman,  I  think  you  said,  Mr. 
Thompson.     Not  ?     Well,  say  two  ploughmen." 

"  More  likely  two  tinkers,"  said  Richai-d. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  wish  to  exclude  the  ploughman — was  he  out 
of  employ  ?  " 

Ripton,  with  Adrian's  eyes  iaveterately  fixed  on  him,  stam- 
mored  an  affirmative. 

*'  The  tinker,  or  the  ploughman  ?  " 

**Thcploughm — ."     Ingenuous  Ripton  looking  about,  ai 


ADRIAN  PLIES  HIS  HOOK-  33 

if  to  aid  himself  whenever  he  was  iible  to  speak  the  truth, 
boliekl  Richard's  face  blackening  at  him,  and  swallowed  back 
hail'  the  word. 

"  The  ploughman!"  Adrian  took  him  up  cheerily.  "  Then 
we  have  here  a  ploughman  out  of  employ.  Given  a  plough- 
man out  of  employ,  and  a  rick  burnt.  The  burning  of  a  rick 
is  an  act  of  vengeance,  and  a  ploughman  out  of  employ  is  a 
vengeful  animal.  The  i-ick  and  the  ploughman  are  advancing 
to  a  juxtaposition.  ]\rotive  being  established,  we  liave  only 
to  pi'ove  their  proximity  at  a  certain  hour,  and  our  ploughman 
voyages  beyond  seas." 

"  Dear  me,  is  it  transportation  for  rick-burning?  "  inquireil 
Ripton  aghast. 

Adrian  spoke  solemnly :  "They  shave  your  head.  "You  are 
manacled.  Your  diet  is  sour  bi-ead  and  cheese-parings.  You 
work  in  strings  of  twenties  and  thii'ties.  Arson  is  branded 
on  your  backs  in  an  enormous  A.  Theological  works  are  the 
sole  literary  recreation  of  the  well-conducted  and  desei'ving. 
Consider  the  fate  of  this  poor  fellow,  and  what  an  act  of 
vengeance  bi'ings  him  to  !     Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  his  name  ?  "  said  Richard,  witli  a 
stubborn  assumption  of  innocence  painful  to  see. 

Sir  Austin  remai-ked  that  no  doubt  it  would  soon  be  known, 
and  Adrian  perceived  that  he  was  to  quiet  his  line,  marveling 
a  little  at  the  baronet's  blindness  to  what  was  so  clear. 
He  would  not  tell,  for  that  would  ruin  his  future  influence 
with  Richard;  still  he  wanted  some  present  credit  for  his 
discei'nment  and  devotion.  The  boys  got  away  from  dinner, 
and,  after  deep  consultation,  agreed  upon  a  coarse  of  conduct, 
which  was  to  commiserate  Farmer  Blaizo  loudly,  and  make 
themselves  look  as  much  like  the  public  as  it  was  possible  for 
two  desperate  young  malefactors  to  look,  one  of  whom  already 
felt  Adrian's  enormous  A  devouring  his  back  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  Promethean  eagle,  and  isolating  him  for  ever 
from  mankind.  Adrian  relished  their  novel  tactics  sharply, 
and  led  them  to  lengths  of  lamentation  for  Farmer  IJlai/.e. 
Do  what  they  might,  the  hook  was  in  their  gills.  The  farmer's 
whip  had  reduced  them  to  bodily  contortions  :  these  were 
decorous  compared  with  the  spiritual  writhings  they  had  to 
perform  under  Adrian's  skilful  manipulation.  Ripton  was  fast 
becoming  a  coward,  and  Richai-d  a  liai",  when  next  morning 
Austin  Wentworth  came  over  from  Poor  Hall  biinging  news 

D 


84  THE  ORDEAT,  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

that  one  IRfr.  Thomas  PakewcU,  yeoman,  had  been  arrested 
on  suspicion  of  the  crime  of  Arson  anil  lodcred  in  jail,  awaiting 
the  mapistei-ial  ])k'asure  of  Sir  ^liles  Papworth.  Austin's 
eye  rested  on  Richard  as  he  spoke  these  teriihle  tidings. 
The  hope  of  Kavnham  returned  his  look,  perfectly  calm,  and 
had,  moreover,  the  presence  of  miud  not  to  look  at  lliptou. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JUVENILE    STRATAGEMS. 


As  soon  as  they  could  escape,  the  boys  got  away  together 
into  an  obscure  corner  of  the  park,  and  there  took  counsel 
of  their  extremity. 

"Whatever  shall  we  do  now?"  asked  Ripton  of  his 
leader. 

Scorpion  girt  with  fire  was  never  in  a  more  terrible  pj-ison- 
house  than  poor  Ripton,  around  whom  the  raging  element 
he  had  assisted  to  create  seemed  to  be  drawing  momently 
narrower  circles. 

"  There's  only  one  chance,"  said  Richard,  coming  to  a  dead 
halt,  and  folding  his  arms  resolutely. 

His  comrade  inquired  with  the  utmost  eagerness  what  that 
chance  might  be  ? 

Richard  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  flint,  and  replied  :  "  We  must 
rescue  that  fellow  from  jail." 

"Rescue  him  from  jail!"  Ripton  gazed  at  his  leader, 
and  fell  back  with  astonishment.  "  My  dear  Ricky !  but 
how  are  we  to  do  it  ?  " 

Richard,  still  perusing  his  flint,  replied:  "  We  must  man- 
age to  get  a  file  in  to  him  and  a  rope.  It  can  be  done,  I 
tell  you.  I  don't  care  what  I  pay.  I  don't  care  what  1  do. 
He  must  be  got  out." 

"  Rother  that  old  Blaize  !  "  exclaimed  Ripton,  taking  off 
his  cap  to  wipe  his  frenzied  forehead,  and  biought  down  his 
friend's  severe  reproof. 

"  Never  mind  old  Blaize  now.  Talk  about  letting  it  out. 
Look  at  you.  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  You  talk  ab(jut  Robin 
Hood  and  King  Richaid  !     Why,  you  haven't  an  atom  of 


JUVENILE  STRATA GE:\rg.  35 

courage.  Why,  you  let  it  out  every  second  of  the  clay. 
Whenever  Rady  begins  speaking  you  start;  I  can  see   the 

pei'spiration  rolling  down  you.     Are  you  afraid  ? And 

then  you  contradict  yourself.  Tou  never  keep  to  one  story. 
Now,  follow  me.  AVe  must  risk  everything  to  get  him  out. 
Mind  that !  And  keep  out  of  Adrian's  way  as  much  as  you 
can.     And  keep  to  one  story." 

With  these  sage  directions  the  young  leader  marched 
his  companion-Culprit  down  to  inspect  the  jail  where  Tom 
Bukewell  lay  groaning  ovei- the  results  of  the  super-mundane 
conflict,  and  the  victim  of  it  that  he  was. 

In  Lobourne  Austin  Wentworth  had  the  reputation  of  the 
poor  man's  friend  ;  a  title  he  earned  more  lai'goly  ere  he  went 
to  the  reward  God  alone  can  give  to  that  supreme  virtue. 
Dame  Bakewell,  the  mother  of  Tom,  on  hearing  of  her  son's, 
arrest,  had  run  to  comfort  him  and  render  him  wliat  help 
she  could  ;  but  this  was  only  sighs  and  tears,  and,  oh  deary 
me  !  which  only  pei'plexed  poor  Tom,  who  bade  her  leave 
an  unlucky  chap  to  his  fate,  and  not  make  himself  a  thun. 
dering  villain.  Whereat  the  dame  begged  him  to  take 
heart,  and  he  should  have  a  true  comforter.  "  And  though 
it's  a  gentleman  that's  coming  to  you,  Tom — for  he  never 
refuses  a  poor  body,"  said  ]\[rs.  Bakewell,  "  it's  a  ti'uo 
Christian,  Tom  !  and  the  Lord  knows  if  the  sight  of  him 
mayn't  be  the  saving  of  you,  for  he's  light  to  look  on,  and  a 
sermon  to  listen  to,  he  is  !  " 

Tom  was  not  prepossessed  by  the  prospect  of  a  sermon, 
and  looked  a  sullen  dog  enough  when  Austin  entered  his 
cell.  He  was  surprised  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  to  find 
himself  engaged  in  man-to-man  conversation  with  a  gentle- 
man and  a  Christian.  When  Austin  rose  to  go,  Tom  begged 
permission  to  shake  his  hand. 

"  Take  and  tell  young  master  up  at  the  Abbey  that  I  an't 
the  chap  to  peach.  He'll  know.  He's  a  young  gentleman 
as  '11  make  any  man  do  as  he  wants  'em  !  He's  a  mortal 
wild  young  gentleman  !  And  I'm  a  Ass  !  That's  where 
'tis.     But  I  an't  a  blackguai-d.     Tell  him  that,  sir !  " 

This  was  how  it  came  that  Austin  eyed  young  Richard 
seriously  while  he  told  the  news  at  Raynham,  The  boy  was 
shy  of  Austin  moj-e  than  of  Adrian.  Why,  he  did  not  know  ; 
but  he  made  it  a  hard  task  for  Austin  to  catch  him  alone, 
and  turned  sulky  that  instant.     Austin  was  not  clever  lika 

d2 


86  THE  or.PEAL  OF  niciiAiin  fevkkel. 

Adrian  :  ho  scl(lc>m  divined  ollu'i-  ])C(ijtIc''8  ideas,  and  alwayi 
>v(.nt  llic  diicft  road  to  his  object;  so  instead  of  beatini^ 
about  and  setliiiLi^  tlie  boy  on  tliealert  at  all  points,  oaiumcd 
to  the  muzzle  with  lies,  lie  just  said,  "Tom  liakewidl  told 
me  to  let  you  know  he  docs  not  intend  to  peach  on  3"0U," 
and  left  him. 

Kieliaid  repeated  the  intelligence  to  Ripton,  who  cried 
ahiud  that  Tom  was  a  brick. 

"  lie  shan't  sulTer  for  it,"  said  Richard,  and  pondered  on  a 
thicker  rope  and  sharper  file. 

"  Rut  will  your  cousin  tell  ?"  was  Ripton's  reflection. 

"  He  !  "  Richard's  lip  expressed  contempt.  "  A  plough- 
man refuses  to  peach,  and  you  ask  if  one  of  our  family 
will?" 

Ripton  stood  for  the  twentieth  time  reproved  on  this 
point. 

The  boys  had  examined  the  outer  walls  of  the  jail,  and 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Tom's  escape  might  be  ma- 
naged if  Tom  had  spirit,  and  the  rope  and  file  could  be  any- 
Mvaj  leached  to  him.  But  to  do  this,  somebody  must  gain 
admittance  to  his  cell,  and  who  was  to  be  taken  into  their 
contidence  ? 

"  Try  your  cousin,"  Ripton  suggested,  after  much  debate. 

Richard,  smiling,  wished  to  know  if  he  meant  Adrian  ? 

"  No,  no  !  "  Ripton  hurriedly  reassured  him.     "Austin." 

The  same  idea  was  knocking  at  Richard's  head. 

"  Let's  get  the  rope  and  file  first,"  said  he,  and  to  Rursley 
they  went  for  those  implements  to  defeat  the  law,  Ripton 
procuring  the  file  at  one  shop  and  Richard  the  rope  at 
another,  with  such  masterly  cunning  did  they  lay  their 
measures  for  the  avoidance  of  every  possible  chance  of  detec- 
tion. And  better  to  assure  this,  in  a  wood  outside  Rursley 
]lichard  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  wound  the  rope  round  his 
body,  tasting  the  tortures  of  anchorites  and  penitential  friars, 
that  nothing  should  be  risked  to  make  Tom's  escape  a 
certainty.  Sir  Austin  saw  the  marks  at  night  as  his  son  lay 
asleep,  through  the  half-opened  folds  of  his  bed-gown. 

It  was  a  severe  stroke  when,  after  all  their  stratagems  and 
trouble,  Austin  Wentworth  refused  the  office  the  hojs  had 
zealously  designed  for  him.  Time  pressed.  In  a  few  days 
poor  Tom  would  have  to  face  the  redoubtable  Sir  Miles,  and 
^et  committed,  for  rumours   of   overwhelming  evidence   to 


JUVENILE  STRATAGEMS.  37 

convict  liim  were  rife  about  Lobnurne,  anrl  Farmer  Blaize's 
wrath  was  uiiappctasable.  Aq'ain  and  ag'ain  young  Richard 
begged  his  cousin  not  to  see  hiui  disgraced,  and  to  help  him 
in  this  extremity.     Austin  was  firm  in  his  refusal. 

"  My  dear  Ricky,"  said  he,  "  there  are  two  ways  of  getting 
out  of  a  scrape  :  a  long  way  and  a  short  way.  When  you've 
tried  the  roundabout  method,  and  failed,  come  to  me,  and 
ni  show  you  the  straight  route." 

Richard  was  too  entirely  bent  upon  the  roundabout  method 
to  consider  this  advice  more  than  empty  words,  and  only 
gi-nnnd  his  teeth  at  Austin's  unkind  refusal. 

He  imparted  to  Ripton,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  that  they 
must  do  it  themselves,  to  which  Ripton  heavily  assented. 

On  the  day  preceding  poor  Tom's  doomed  appearance 
before  the  magistrate,  Dame  Bakewell  had  an  interview  with 
Austin,  who  went  to  Raynhara  immediately,  and  sought 
Adrian's  counsel  what  was  to  be  done.  Homeric  laughter 
and  nothing  else  could  be  got  out  of  Adrian  when  he  heard 
of  the  doings  of  these  desperate  boys  :  how  they  had  entered 
Uame  Bakewell's  smallest  of  retail  shops,  and  purchased  tea, 
sugar,  candles,  and  comfits  of  every  description,  till  the  shop 
was  clear  of  customers  :  how  they  had  then  hurried  her  into 
her  little  back-parlour,  where  Richard  had  torn  open  his 
shirt  and  revealed  the  coils  of  rope,  and  Ripton  disi)layed  the 
point  of  a  file  from  a  serpentine  recess  in  his  jacket:  how 
they  had  then  told  the  astonished  woman  that  the  rope  she 
saw  and  the  file  she  saw  were  instruments  for  the  liberation 
of  her  son ;  that  there  existed  no  other  means  on  eartJi  to 
save  him,  they,  the  boys,  having  unsuccessfully  attempted 
all :  how  upon  tliat  Richard  had  tried  with  the  utmost 
earnestness  to  persuade  her  to  disrobe  and  wind  the  rope 
I'oniid  her  own  person:  and  Ripton  had  aired  his  elo(|nence 
to  mdace  her  to  secrete  the  file:  how,  when  she  resolutely 
oijjected  to  the  rope,  both  boys  began  backing  the  file,  and 
in  an  evil  hour,  she  feared,  said  Dame  Bakewell,  she  had 
r(! warded  the  gracious  permission  given  her  by  Sir  Miles 
Papworth  to  visit  her  son,  by  tempting  Tom  to  file  the  Law. 
Though,  thanks  be  to  the  Lord !  Dame  Bakewell  added, 
Tom  had  turned  up  his  nose  at  the  file,  and  so  she  hatl  told 
young  Master  Richard,  who  swore  very  bad  for  a  young 
gentleman. 

"  Boys  ai'e  like  monkeys,"  remarked  Adrian,  at  the  closo 


38  TITK  OKDEAL  OF  rilCllAnO  FEVFRTT.. 

of  his  explosions,  "  tlio  gravest  actors  of  farcical  iinnsciiso 
that  tlic  work!  possesses.  May  I  never  be  wliere  there  are 
no  boys  !  A  couple  of  boys  left  to  themselves  will  furnish 
richer  fun  than  any  troop  of  trained  comedians.  No:  no  Art 
arrives  at  the  aj-tlessness  of  nature  in  matters  of  comedy. 
You  can't  simulate  the  ape.  Your  antics  are  dull.  They 
haven't  the  charming  inconsequence  of  the  natural  animal. 
Look  at  these  two  !  Think  of  the  shifts  they  are  ]mt  to  aU 
day  long  !  They  know  I  know  all  about  it,  and  yet  their 
seienity  of  innocence  is  all  but  unruflled  in  my  presence. 
You're  sorry  to  think  about  the  end  of  the  business,  Austin  ? 
So  am  I !  I  di-ead  the  idea  of  the  cui-tain  going  down.  Be- 
sides, it  will  do  Ricky  a  world  of  good.  A  j)ractical  lesson 
is  the  best  lesson." 

"  Sinks  deepest,"  said  Austin,  "  but  whether  he  learns 
good  or  evil  from  it  is  the  fpiestion  at  stake." 

Adrian  stretched  his  length  at  ease. 

"  This  will  be  his  first  nibble  at  experience,  old  Time's 
fruit,  hateful  to  the  palate  of  yoitth  !  for  which  season  only 
liath  it  any  nourishment!  Experience!  You  know  Cole- 
ridge's capital  simile  ? — Mournful  you  call  it  ?  Well !  all 
wisdom  is  mournful.  'Tis  therefore,  coz,  that  the  wise  do 
love  the  Comic  ]\Iuse.  Their  own  high  food  would  kill 
them.  You.  shall  find  great  poets,  rare  philosopliers,  night 
after  night  on  the  broad  grin  before  a  row  of  yellow  lights 
and  mouthing  masks.  AVhy  ?  Because  all's  dai-k  at  home. 
The  stage  is  the  pastime  of  great  minds.  That's  how  it 
comes  that  the  stage  is  now  down.  An  age  of  ramj)ant 
little  minds,  my  dear  Austin  !  How  I  hate  that  cant  of 
yours  about  an  Age  of  Work — you,  and  youi  Mortons,  and 
your  parsons  Brawnley,  rank  radicals  all  of  3"0U,  base  mate- 
rialists !  What  does  Diaper  Sandoe  sing  of  your  Age  of 
Work  ?     Listen  ! 

**  An  A  pre  of  potty  tit  for  tat, 
An  A<;e  of  hnsy  yablile  : 
An  A<^c  tliat's  like  a  In-cwcr's  vat, 
Fernientiug  for  tlie  rubble  1 

••  An  Af^e  tliat's  chaste  in  Love,  but  Isx 
To  virtuous  abuses  : 
Whose  }:;eiitlenien  and  ladies  wax 
Too  dainty  for  their  uses. 


JUVENILE  STRATAGEMS.  89 

■  An  Age  that  drives  an  Iron  florae 
Of  Time  and  Space  defiant ; 
Exulting  in  a  Giant's  Force, 
And  trembling  at  the  Giant. 

*  An  Afje  of  Quaker  hue  and  cut, 
Ey  MamnidU  misbegotten  ; 
See  tlie  mad  Hamlet  mouth  and  strut  I 
And  mark  the  Kings  of  Cotton  1 

"  From  this  nnrest,  lo,  early  wreck'd, 
A  P'uture  staggers  crazy, 
Ojihelia  of  the  Ages,  dcck'd 
With  woeful  weed  and  daisy  !  " 

Murmuring,  "  Get  your  parson  Brawnlej  to  answer  tliat!'* 
Adrian  changed  the  resting-place  of  a  log,  and  smiled.  The 
Age  was  an  old  battle-field  between  him  and  Austin. 

"  My  parson  Brawnley,  as  you  call  him,  has  answered  it," 
said  Austin,  "  not  by  hoping  his  best,  whicli  would  probably 
leave  the  Age  to  go  mad  to  your  satisfaction,  but  by  doing 
it.  And  he  has  and  will  answer  your  Diaper  Sandoe  in 
better  verse,  as  he  confutes  him  in  a  better  life." 

"  You  don't  see  Sandoe's  depth,"  Adrian  replied.  "  Con- 
sider that  phrase,  '  Ophelia  of  the  Ages  '  !  Is  not  Brawnley, 
like  a  dozen  other  leading  spirits — I  tiiink  that's  your  tci-m 
— just  the  metaphysical  Hamlet  to  drive  her  mad?  She, 
poor  maid!  asks  for  marriage  and  smiling  babes,  while  my 
lord  lover  stands  questioning  the  Infinite,  and  rants  to  the 
Impalpable." 

Austin  laughed.  "  Marriage  and  smiling  babes  she  woald 
have  in  abundance,  if  Brawnley  legislated.  Wait  till  you 
know  him.  Ho  will  be  over  at  Poor  Hall  shortly,  and  you 
will  see  what  a  ]\lan  of  the  Age  means.  But  now  pray  con- 
Bult  with  me  about  these  boys." 

"  Oh,  those  boys  !  "  Adrian  tossed  a  hand.  "  Are  there 
boys  of  the  Age  as  well  as  men  ?  JN'ot  ?  Then  boys  are 
better  than  men  :  boys  are  for  all  Ages.  What  do  you  think, 
Austin  ?  They've  been  studying  Latudo's  Escape.  I  founil 
the  book  open  in  Ricky's  room,  on  the  top  of  Jonathan  Wild. 
Jonathan  preserved  the  secrets  of  his  profession,  and  taught 
them  nothing.  So  they're  going  to  make  a  Latude  of  ]\Ir. 
Tom  Bakewell.  He's  to  be  ]>astille  Bakewell,  whether  he 
will  or  no.     Let  them.     Let  the  wild  colt  run  free  !     Wa 


40  TnE  ORPEAL  OF  RrCIIAnD  FEVERHL. 

can't  help  them.  We  can  only  look  on.  '  We  should  spoil 
the  play." 

Adrian  always  made  a  point  of  fccdinp;'  the  frctfnl  beast. 
Impatience  with  pleasantries — a  not  cong'cnial  diet;  and 
Austin,  the  most  patient  of  human  beings,  began  to  lose  his 
self-control. 

"  You  talk  as  if  Time  belonged  to  yon,  Adrian.  We  have 
but  a  few  honrs  left  us.  Work  first,  and  joke  afterwards. 
The  boy's  fate  is  being  decided  now." 

"So  is  everybody's,  my  dear  Austin !  "  yawned  the  epi. 
curean. 

"  Yes,  but  this  boy  is  at  present  under  our  guardianship — 
under  yours  especiall}'." 

"  Not  yet !  not  yet !  "  Adrian  interjected  languidly.  "  No 
getting  into  scrapes  when  I  have  him.  The  leash,  young 
hound  !  The  collar,  young  colt !  I'm  perfectly  in-esponsible 
at  pi-esent." 

"  You  may  have  something  different  to  deal  with  when  you 
are  responsible,  if  you  think  that." 

"  I  take  my  young  prince  as  I  find  him,  coz :  a  Julian,  or  a 
Caracalla:  a  Constantine,  or  a  Nero.  Then,  if  he  will  play 
the  fiddle  to  a  conflagration,  he  shall  play  it  well :  if  he  must 
be  a  disputatious  a])0state,  at  any  rate  he  shall  understand 
logic  and  men,  and  have  the  habit  of  saying  his  prayei-s." 

"  Then  you  leave  me  to  act  alone  ?  "  said  Austin,  rising. 

"Without  a  single  curb  !  "  Adrian  gesticulated  an  acqui- 
esced withdrawal.  "  I'm  sure  you  would  not,  still  more 
certain  you  cannot,  do  haim.  And  be  mindful  of  my  prophetic 
words  :  Whatever's  done,  old  Blaize  will  have  to  be  bought 
off.  There's  the  affair  settled  at  once.  I  suppose  I  must  go 
to  the  chief  to-night  and  settle  it  myself.  We  can't  see  this 
poor  devil  condemned,  though  it's  nonsense  to  talk  of  a  boy 
being  the  prime  instigator." 

Austin  cast  an  eye  at  the  complacent  languor  of  the  wise 
youth,  his  cousin,  and  the  little  that  he  knew  of  his  fellows 
told  him  he  might  talk  for  ever  here,  and  not  be  compre- 
hended. The  wise  youth's  two  ears  were  stuffed  with  his 
own  wisdom.  One  evil  only  Adrian  dicaded,  it  was  clcai — 
the  action  of  the  law. 

As  he  was  moving  away,  Adrian  called  out  to  him,  "  Stop, 
Austin  !  There  !  don't  be  anxious  !  You  invariably  take 
the  glum  side.     I've  done  something.     Never  mind  what.     If 


daphne's  bower.  41 

yon  go  down  to  Belthorpe,  be  civil,  but  not  obsequious.  Tou 
remember  the  tactics  of  Scipio  Africanus  against  the  Funic 
elephants  ?  Well,  don't  say  a  word — in  thine  ear,  coz  :  I've 
turned  Master  Blaize's  elephants.  If  they  charge,  'twill  be  a 
feint,  and  back  to  the  destruction  of  his  serried  ranks  !  You 
understand.  Not  ?  Well,  'tis  as  well.  Only  let  none  say 
that  I  sleep.  If  I  must  see  him  to-niglit,  I  go  down  knowing 
he  has  not  got  us  in  his  power."  The  wise  youth  yawned, 
and  stretched  out  a  hand  for  any  book  that  might  bo  within 
his  reach.  Austin  left  him  to  look  about  the  grounds  for 
nichard. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
daphne's    bower. 


A  LITTLE  laurel-shaded  temple  of  white  marble  looked  out 
on  the  river  from  a  knoll  bordering  the  Ilaynham  beech  woods, 
and  was  dubbed  by  Adrian  Daphne's  Bower.  To  this  spot 
Richard  had  retired,  and  tl^ere  Austin  found  him  with  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  a  picture  of  desperation,  whose  last 
shift  has  been  defeated.  He  allowed  Austin  to  greet  him  and 
sit  by  him  without  lifting  his  head.  Perhaps  his  eyes  were 
not  presentable. 

"  Where's  your  friend  ?  "  Austin  began. 

"Gone!  "  was  the  answer,  sounding  cavernous  from  behind 
hair  and  fingers.  An  explanation  presently  followed,  that  a 
summons  had  come  for  him  in  the  morning  from  Mr.  Thomp- 
Bon  j  and  that  Mr.  Ripton  had  departed  against  his  will. 

In  fact,  Ripton  had  protested  that  he  would  defy  his  parent 
and  remain  by  his  friend  in  the  hour  of  adversity  and  at  the 
post  of  danger.  Sir  Austin  signified  his  opinion  that  a  boy 
should  obey  his  parent,  by  giving  oi-ders  to  Benson  for 
Rij)ton'8  box  to  be  packed  and  ready  before  noon;  and 
Ripton's  alacrity  in  taking  the  baronet's  view  of  filial  duty 
was  as  little  feigned  as  his  offer  to  Richard  to  throw  filial 
duty  to  the  winds.  He  rejoiced  that  the  Fates  had  agreed  to 
remove  him  from  the  very  hot  neighbourhood  of  Lobgurne, 
while  lie  grieved,  like  an  honest  la.l,  to  see  his  couii-ado  left 


42  TlIK  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

to  fiu'o  cah.mity  alone.  TIio  boys  part('(l  aniical)lj,  as  ihcj 
could  liaidly  fail  to  do,  when  Kiptoii  had  Rworn  fealty  to 
(lie  Feverels  with  a  fei-vour  that  made  him  declare  himself 
bond,  and  due  to  ajipear  at  any  stated  hour  and  at  any  stated 
place  to  ii,L;lit  all  the  farmers  in  England,  on  a  mandate  from 
the  heir  of  the  house. 

"So  you're  left  alone,"  said  Austin,  contemplatimr  the 
boy's  shape  ly  head.  "  I'm  glad  of  it.  We  never  know  wliat's 
in  us  till  we  stand  by  ourselves." 

There  appeared  to  be  no  answer  forthcoming.  Vanity, 
Losvcver,  leplied  at  last,  "  He  wasn't  much  support." 

"Remember  his  good  points  now  he's  gone,  liicky." 

"  Oh  !  he  was  staunch,"  the  boy  grumbled. 

"  And  a  staunch  friend  is  not  always  to  be  found.  Now, 
have  you  tried  your  own  way  of  rectifying  this  business, 
Kicky'?" 

"  I  ha\e  done  everything." 

"  And  failed  !" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  deep-toned  evasion— 

"  Tom  BakewcU's  a  coward  !" 

"I  suppose,  poor  fellow,"  said  Austin,  in  his  kind  way, 
**  he  doesn't  want  to  get  into  a  deeper  mess.  I  don't  tliink 
he's  a  coward." 

"  He  is  a  coward,"  cried  Richard.  "  Do  you  think  if  I 
had  a  file  I  would  stay  in  pi-ison  ?  I'd  be  out  the  first 
night  !  And  he  might  have  had  the  rope,  too — a  rope  thick 
enough  for  a  couple  of  men  his  size  and  weight.  Ripton  and 
I  and  Ned  ^farkham  SAvung  on  it  for  an  hour,  and  it  didu't 
give  way.  He's  a  coward,  and  deserves  his  fate.  I've  no 
compassion  for  a  coward." 

"  Nor  I  much,"  said  Austin. 

Richard  had  raised  his  head  in  the  heat  of  his  denunciation 
of  poor  Tom.  He  would  have  hidden  it  had  he  known  the 
thought  in  Austin's  clear  eyes  while  he  faced  them. 

"  I  never  met  a  coward  myself,"  Austin  continued.  "  I 
have  heard  of  one  or  two.  One  let  an  innocent  man  die  for 
h-m." 

"  How  base  !"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  it  was  bad,"  Austin  acfiuiesced. 

"  Bad  !"  Richard  scorned  the  poor  contempt.  "  How  I 
wouldhave  spurned  him  !     He  was  a  coward!" 

"  I  believe   he   pleaded  the  feelings  of   his  family  in  his 


daphne's  bower.  43 

excnse,  and  tried  every  means  to  get  him  ofF.  I  have  read 
also  in  the  confessions  of  a  celebrated  philosopher  that  ia 
his  youth  he  committed  some  act  of  pilfering,  and  accused  a 
young  servant-girl  of  his  own  theft,  who  was  condemned  and 
dismissed  for  it,  pardoning  her  guilty  accuser." 

•'  What  a  coward  !"  shouted  Richard.  "  And  he  confessed 
it  publicly  ?" 

"  Y^ou  may  read  it  yourself." 

"  He  actually  wrote  it  down,  and  printed  It?" 

"  You  have  the  book  in  your  father's  library.  Would  you 
have  done  so  much  ?" 

Richard  faltered.  No  !  he  admitted  that  he  never  could 
have  told  people. 

"  Then  who  is  to  call  that  man  a  coward  ?"  said  Austin. 
"  He  expiated  his  cowardice  as  all  who  give  way  in  moments 
of  weakness,  and  are  not  cowards,  must  do.  The  coward 
chooses  to  think  '  God  does  not  sec.  I  shall  escape.'  He 
who  is  not  a  coward,  and  has  succumbed,  knows  that  God 
has  seen  all,  and  it  is  not  so  hard  a  task  for  him  to  make 
his  heart  bare  to  the  woi-ld.  Worse,  I  should  fancy  it,  to 
know  myself  an  impostor  when  men  pi-aised  me." 

Young  Richard's  eyes  wei-e  wandering  on  Austin's  gravely 
cheerful  face.  A  keen  intentness  suddenly  fixed  them,  and 
he  dropped  his  head. 

"  So  I  think  you're  wrong,  Ricky,  in  calling  this  poor 
Tom  a  coward  because  he  refuses  to  try  your  means  of 
escape,"  Austin  resumed.  "  A  coward  hardly  objects  to 
drag  in  his  accomplice.  And,  where  the  person  involved 
belongs  to  a  great  family,  it  seems  to  me  that  for  a  poor 
plough-lad  to  volunteer  not  to  do  so  speaks  him  anything 
but  a  coward." 

Richard  was  silent.  Altogether  to  surrender  his  rope  anrl 
file  was  a  fearful  sacrifice,  after  all  the  time,  trepidation,  and 
study  he  had  spent  on  those  two  saving  instruments.  If  he 
avowed  Tom's  manly  behaviour,  Richard  Feverel  was  in  a 
totally  new  position.  Whereas,  by  keeping  Tom  a  coward, 
Richard  Feverel  was  the  injured  one,  and  to  seem  injured  is 
always  a  luxury  ;  sometimes  a  necessity,  whether  among  boys 
or  men. 

In  Austin  the  IMagian  conflict  would  not  have  lasted  long. 
He  had  but  a  blind  notion  of  the  fierceness  with  which  it 
raged  in  young  Richard.     Happily  for  the  boy,  Austin  was 


44  tiif:  ordeal  of  riciiakd  kkvhhel. 

not  a  preacher.  A  sint^le  iiisistjinee,  a  cant  phrase,  a  fatherly 
niannci",  tnii^lit  have  wrecketl  him,  by  arousing  ancient  or 
latent  opposition.  The  boi-n  preacher  we  feel  instinctively  to 
be  our  foe.  He  may  do  some  good  to  the  wretches  tliat  have 
been  struck  down,  and  lie  gasping  on  the  battlefield  :  ho 
rouses  antagonism  in  the  strong.  Richard's  natui-e,  left  to 
itself,  wanted  little  more  than  an  indication  of  the  proper 
track,  and  when  he  said,  "  Tell  me  what  I  can  do,  Austin  ?  " 
he  had  fought  the  best  half  of  the  battle.  His  voice  wa3 
subdued.      Austin  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  You  must  go  down  to  Farmer  Bhiize." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Richard,  sulleuly  divining  the  deed  of 
penance. 

"  You'll  know  what  to  say  to  him  when  j-ou're  there." 

The  boy  bit  his  lip  and  frowned.  "  Ask  a  favour  of  that 
big  brute,  Austin  ?     I  can't !  " 

"  Just  tell  him  the  whole  case,  and  that  you  don't  intend 
to  stand  by  and  let  the  poor  fellow  suffer  without  a  friend  to 
help  liim  out  of  his  scrape." 

"But,  Austin,"  the  boy  pleaded,  "I  shall  have  to  ask 
him  to  help  off  Tom  Bakcwell !  How  can  I  ask  him,  when  I 
hate  him  ?  " 

Austin  bade  him  go,  and  think  nothing  of  the  consequences 
till  he  got  there. 

Richard  groaned  in  soul. 

'  You've  no  pride,  Austin.** 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  ask  a  favour  of  a  hrute 
you  hate." 

Richard  stuck  to  that  view  of  the  case,  and  stuck  to  it 
the  faster  the  more  imperatively  the  urgency  of  a  movement 
dawned  upon  him. 

"  Why,"  continued  the  boy,  "  1  shall  hardly  be  able  to  keep 
my  fists  off  him  !  " 

"  Surely  you've  punished  him  enough,  boy  ?  "  said  Austin. 

"  He  struck  me  !  "  Richard's  lip  quivered.  "  He  dared  not 
come  at  me  with  his  hands.  He  struck  me  with  a  whip. 
He'll  be  telling  everybody  that  he  horsewhipped  me,  and  that 
I  went  down  and  begged  his  pardon.  Begged  his  pardon  ! 
A  Feverel  beg  his  pardon  !     Oh,  if  I  had  my  will  !  " 

"  The  man  earns  his  bread,  Ricky.  You  poached  on  hia 
grounds.     He  tui-ned  you  off,  and  you  fired  his  rick." 


daphne's  bower.  45 

"And  I'll  pay  him  for  his  loss.  And  I  won't  do  any 
more." 

"  Because  you  won't  ask  a  favour  of  him  ?  " 

"  No  !  I  will  not  ask  a  favour  of  him." 

Austin  looked  at  the  boy  steadily.  "  You  prefer  to  receive 
a  favour  from  poor  Tom  Bake  well  ?  " 

At  Austin's  enunciation  of  this  obverse  view  of  the  matter 
Richard  raised  his  brow.  Dimly  a  new  light  broke  in  upon 
him.  "  Favour  from  Tom  Bakewell,  the  ploughman  ?  llow 
do  you  mean,  Austin  ?  ' 

"  To  save  yourself  an  unpleasantness  you  permit  a  country 
lad  to  sacrifice  himself  for  you  ?  I  confess  I  should  not  have 
so  much  pride." 

"  Pride  !  "  shouted  Richard,  stung  by  the  taunt,  and  set  his 
Bight  hard  at  the  blue  ridges  of  the  hills. 

Not  knowing  for  the  moment  what  else  to  do,  Austin  drew 
a  picture  of  Tom  in  prison,  and  repeated  Tom's  volunteer 
statement.  The  picture,  though  his  intentions  were  far  fi-om 
designing  it  so,  had  to  Richard,  whose  percejition  of  humour 
was  infinitely  keener,  a  hori-ible  chaw-bncon  smack  about  it. 
Visions  of  a  grinning  lout,  open  fi-om  ear  to  eai",  unkempt, 
coarse,  splay-footed,  rose  before  him  and  afflicted  him  with  the 
strangest  sensations  of  disgust  and  comicality,  mixed  up  with 
pity  and  remorse — a  sort  of  twisted  pathos.  There  lay  Tom; 
hobnail  Tom  !  a  bacon-munching,  reckless,  beer-swilling 
animal  !  and  yet  a  man ;  a  dear  brave  human  heart  notwith- 
standing; capable  of  devotion  and  unselfishness.  The  boy's 
better  sjoirit  was  touched,  and  it  kindled  his  imagination  to 
realize  the  abject  figure  of  poor  clodpole  Tom,  and  surround 
it  with  a  haloof  moui'nful  light.  His  soul  was  alive.  Feelings 
he  had  never  known  streamed  in  upon  him  as  from  an  etlicrt  al 
casement,  an  unwonted  tenderness,  an  embracing  humoui",  a 
consciousness  of  some  ineffable  gloiy,  an  irradiation  of  the 
features  of  humanity.  All  this  was  in  the  bosom  of  the  boy, 
and  through  it  all  the  vision  of  an  actual  hob-nail  Tom, 
coarse,  unkempt,  open  from  car  to  ear;  whose  presence  was 
a  finger  of  shame  to  him  and  an  oi)prcssion  of  clodpole;  yci; 
towai-d  whom  he  felt  just  then  a  loving-kindness  beyond 
what  he  lelt  for  any  living  creature.  He  laughed  at  him, 
and  wept  over  him.  He  pri/X'd  him,  while  he  shrank  from 
him.  It  was  a  genial  sti-ii'e  of  the  angel  in  him  with  consti- 
tuents less  divine  j  but  the  angel  was  ujjpermost  and  led  the 


46  THE  ORPRAL  OF  RICITARD  FEVRREL. 

van — cxtinfTnishcd  loatliiiif^',  humanized  laughter,  trans, 
figured  priile — pride  tliat  would  persistently  coiitcniplato 
the  corduroys  of  gaping  Tom,  and  cry  to  Richard,  in  tho 
very  tone  of  Adrian's  ironic  voice,  "Behold  your  benefactor!" 

Austin  sat  by  the  boy,  unaware  of  the  sublimcr  tumult  ho 
had  stirred.  Little  of  it  was  perceptible  in  Richai-d's  coun- 
tenance. The  lines  of  his  mouth  were  slightly  drawn  ;  liiy 
eyes  still  hard  set  into  the  distance.  He  remained  tlius 
many  minutes.  Finally  he  jumped  to  his  legs,  saying,  "  I'll 
go  at  once  to  old  Blaize  and  tell  him." 

Austin  grasped  his  hand,  and  together  they  issued  out  of 
Daphne's  Bower,  in  the  direction  of  Lobourue. 


CKAPTER  VIII. 

THE  BITTEK  CUP. 


Farmer  Blaize  was  not  so  astonished  at  the  visit  of  Richard 
Feverel  as  that  young  gentleman  expected  him  to  be.  The 
farmer,  seated  in  his  easy-chair  in  the  little  low-roofed 
parlour  of  an  old-fashioned  farm-house,  with  a  long  clay 
pipe  on  the  table  at  his  elbow,  and  a  veteran  pointer  at  his 
feet,  had  already  given  audience  to  three  distinguished 
members  of  the  Feverel  blood,  who  had  come  sepai-ately, 
according  to  their  accustomed  secretiveness,  and  with  one 
object.  In  the  morning  it  was  Sir  Austin  himself.  Shortly 
after  his  departure,  arrived  Austin  Wentworth ;  close  on  his 
heels,  Algernon,  known  about  Lobourne  as  the  Captain, 
popular  wherever  he  was  known.  Farmer  Blaize  leclined 
in  considerable  elation.  lie  had  brought  these  great  people 
to  a  pretty  low  pitch.  He  had  welcomed  them  hospitably, 
as  a  British  yeoman  should ;  but  not  budged  a  foot  in  his 
demands  :  not  to  the  bai-onet :  not  to  the  Captain :  not  to 
good  young  Mr.  Wentworth.  For  Farmer  Blaize  was  a  solid 
Englishman ;  and,  on  hearing  from  the  baronet  a  frank  con- 
fession of  the  hold  he  had  on  the  family,  he  determined  to 
tighten  his  hold,  and  ordy  relax  it  in  exchange  for  tangible 
advantages — compensation  to  his  pocket,  his  wounded  per- 


THE  BITTER  CUP.  47 

eon,  and  his  still  more  wounded  feelings  :  the  total  indemnity 
being,  in  round  figui-es,  three  hundred  pounds,  and  a  spoken 
apology  from  the  prime  offender,  young  Mister  Richard. 
Even  then  there  was  a  reservation.  Provided,  the  farmer 
said,  nobody  had  been  tampering  with  any  of  his  witnesses. 
In  that  case  Parmer  Blaize  declared  the  money  miglit  go, 
and  he  would  transport  Tom  Bakevvell,  as  he  had  sworn  he 
would.  And  it  goes  hard,  too,  with  an  accomplice,  by  law, 
added  the  farmer,  knocking  the  ashes  leisurely  out  of  his 
pipe.  He  had  no  wish  to  bring  any  disgrace  anywhere  ;  he 
respected  the  inmates  of  Ila3'nham  Abbey,  as  in  duty  bound ; 
he  should  be  sorry  to  see  them  in  trouble.  Only  no  tamper- 
ing with  his  witnesses.  He  was  a  man  for  Law.  Rank  was 
much :  money  was  much :  but  Law  was  more.  In  this 
country  Law  was  above  the  sovereign.  To  tamper  with  the 
Law  was  treason  to  the  realm. 

"  I  come  to  you  direct,"  the  baronet  explained.  *'  I  tell 
you  candidly  in  what  way  I  discovered  my  son  to  be  mixed 
tip  in  this  miserable  affair.  I  promise  you  indemnity  for 
your  loss,  and  an  apology  that  shall,  I  trust,  satisfy  your 
feelings,  assuring  you  that  to  tamper  with  witnesses  is  not 
the  province  of  a  Peverel.  All  I  ask  of  you  in  i-eturn  is,  not 
to  j)ress  the  prosecution.  At  present  it  i^ests  with  you.  I 
a,m  bound  to  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  for  this  imprisoned 
man.  How  and  whei-efore  my  son  was  prompted  to  suggest, 
■or  assist  in,  such  an  act,  I  cannot  explain,  for  I  do  not 
know." 

"  Hum  !  "  said  the  farmer.     "  I  think  I  do." 

•'  You  know  the  cause  ?  "  Sir  Austin  stared.  "  I  beg  you 
to  confide  it  to  me." 

"  'Least,  I  can  pretty  nigh  neighbour  it  with  a  guess,"  said 
the  farmer.  "  We  an't  good  friends.  Sir  Austin,  me  and  your 
son,  just  now — not  to  say  cordial.  I,  ye  see,  Sir  Austin,  I'm  a 
man  as  don't  like  young  gentlemen  a-poachin'  on  his  gi-ounds 
witliout  his  permission, — in  special  when  birds  is  plentiful 
on  tlieir  own.  It  .appear  he  do  like  it.  Consequently  I  has 
to  flick  this  whip — as  them  fellers  at  the  races:  All  in  this 
'ere  Ring's  mine  !  as  much  as  to  say ;  and  who's  been  hit, 
he's  had  fair  warnin'.  I'm  soi-i-y  for't,  but  that's  just  the 
case." 

Sir  Austin  retired  to  communicate  with  his  son,  when  J  to 
should  find  him. 


48  THE  OTirtKAL  OF  mcnATlD  FEVERKL. 

Algernon's  interview  passed  oiT  in  alo  anil  promises.  II« 
filso  assiireil  Farmer  Blaize  that  no  Feverel  could  be  allectcd 
bj  his  proviso. 

No  less  did  Austin  Wentwoj'th.  The  farmer  was  satisfied. 
"Money's  safe,  I  know,"  said  he;  "now  for  the  'poloo-y  !" 
nnd  Farmer  Blaize  thrust  his  legs  further  out,  and  his  head 
fui'tlier  back. 

The  farmer  naturally  reflected  that  the  three  separ.ite 
visits  liad  been  conspired  tooethcr.  Still  the  bai-onet's 
fi-ankness,  and  the  bai-onet's  not  having  reserved  himself  for 
the  third  and  final  charge,  puzzled  him.  lie  was  consider- 
ing whether  they  were  a  deep,  or  a  shallow  lot,  when  young 
Richard  was  announced. 

A  pretty  little  girl  with  the  roses  of  thirteen  springs  in 
lier  cheeks,  and  abundant  beautiful  bright  tresses,  tri))ped 
before  the  boy,  and  loitered  shyly  by  the  farmer's  arm-chaii- 
to  steal  a  look  at  the  handsome  new-comer.  She  was  intro- 
duced to  Richard  as  the  farmer's  niece,  Lucy  Desborough, 
the  daughter  of  a  lieutenant  in  the  Royal  Navy,  and,  what 
■was  better,  though  the  farmer  did  not  pronounce  it  so  loudly, 
a  real  good  girl. 

Neither  the  excellence  of  her  character,  nor  her  rank  in 
life,  tempted  Richard  to  inspect  the  little  lady.  He  made 
an  awkward  bow,  and  sat  down. 

The  farmer's  eyes  twinkled.  "  Her  father,"  he  continued, 
**  fought  and  fell  for  his  coontry.  A  man  as  fights  for's 
coontiy^  's  a  right  to  hould  up  his  head — ay  !  with  any  in 
the  land.  Uesb'roughs  o'  Dorset!  d'ye  know  that  family, 
Master  Feverel  ?" 

Richard  did  not  know  them,  and,  by  his  air,  did  not 
desire  to  become  acquainted  with  any  oD'shoot  of  that 
family. 

"  She  can  make  puddens  and  pies,"  the  farmer  went  on, 
regardless  of  his  auditor's  gloom.  "  She's  a  lady,  as  good  as 
the  best  of  'em.  I  don't  care  about  their  being  Ca< holies — 
the  Desb'roughs  o'  Dorset  are  gentlemen.  And  she's  good 
for  the  pianer,  too  !  She  strums  to  nie  of  evenin's.  I"m  for 
the  old  tunes :  she's  for  the  new.  Gal-like  !  While  she's 
with  me  she  shall  be  taught  things  use'l.  She  can  parley, 
voo  a  good  'un  and  foot  it,  as  it  goes ;  been  in  Fiance  a 
couple  of  year.  I  prefer  the  singin'  of  't  to  the  talkin'  of  't. 
Come,  Luce!   toon  up — eli  r* — Ye  vvun't  ?     That  song  about 


TTIR  BITTER  CUP.  49 

the  VifTendeor — a  female" — Farmer  Blaize  volunteered  the 
translation  of  the  title — "  who  wears  the — you  guess  what ! 
and  inarches  along  with  the  Fi'ench  sojers  :  a  pretty  brazen 
bit  o'  goods,  I  sli'd  fancy." 

Mademoiselle  Lucy  corrected  her  uncle's  French,  but 
objected  to  do  more.  The  handsome  cross  boy  had  almost 
taken  away  her  voice  for  speech,  as  it  was,  and  sing  in  his 
company  she  could  not ;  so  slie  stood,  a  hand  on  her  uncle's 
chair  to  stay  herself  from  falling,  while  she  wriggled  a 
dozen  various  shapes  of  refusal,  and  shook  her  head  at  the 
farmer  with  fixed  eyes. 

"Aha!"  laughed  the  farmer,  dismissing  her,  "they  soon 
learn  the  difference  'twixt  the  young  'un  and  the  old  'un. 
Go  along,  Luce  !  and  learn  j^er  lessons  for  to-morrow." 

Reluctantly  the  daughter  of  the  Royal  Navy  glided  away. 
Her  uncle's  head  followed  her  to  the  door,  where  she  dallied 
to  catch  a  last  impression  of  the  young  stranger's  lowering 
face,  and  darted  through. 

Farmer  Blaize  laughed  and  chuckled.  "She  an't  so  fond 
of  her  uncle  as  that,  every  day !  Not  that  she  an't  a  good 
nurse — the  kindest  little  soul  you'd  meet  of  a  winter's  walk  ! 
She'll  read  t'  ye,  and  make  drinks,  and  sing,  too,  if  ye  likes 
it,  and  she  won't  be  tired.  A  obstinate  good  'un,  she  be! 
Bless  her  !" 

The  farmer  may  have  designed,  by  these  eulogies  of  his 
niece,  to  give  his  visitor  time  to  recover  his  composure,  and 
establish  a  common  topic.  His  diversion  only  irritated  and 
confused  our  shame-eaten  youth.  Richard's  intention  had 
been  to  come  to  the  farmer's  threshold  :  to  summon  the 
farmer  thither,  and  in  a  loud  and  haughty  tone  then  and 
there  to  take  upon  himself  the  whole  burden  of  the  charge 
against  Tom  Bakewell.  He  had  strayed,  during  his  passage 
to  Belthorpe,  somewhat  back  to  his  old  nature;  and  his 
being  compelled  to  enter  the  house  of  his  enemy,  sit  in  his 
chair,  and  endure  an  introduction  to  his  family,  was  more 
than  he  bargained  for.  He  commenced  blinking  hard  in 
preparation  for  the  horrible  dose  to  which  delay  and  the 
farmer's  cordiality  added  inconceivable  bitters.  Farmer 
Blaize  was  quite  at  his  ease  ;  nowise  in  a  hurry.  He  spoko 
of  the  weather  and  the  harvest :  of  recent  doings  up  at  the 
Abbey:  glanced  over  that  year's  cricketing ;  hoped  that  no 
future  Feverel  woulJ  lose  a  leg  to  the  game.     Richard  saw 


60  THE  ORPKAL  OF  rjrn.\"RD  FEVKTIEL. 

and  heard  Arson  in  it  all.  He  blinked  harder  as  ho  neared 
the  cup.     In  a  moment  of  silence,  lie  seized  it  with  a  f^asp. 

"  Mr.  Illaize  !  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  the  per- 
son who  set  lire  to  your  I'iek  the  other  niglit." 

An  odd  contraction  formed  about  the  farmer's  mouth.  lie 
changed  his  posture,  and  said,  "  Ay  ?  that's  what  yc'ic  conio 
to  tell  me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Richard  firmly. 

"  And  that  bo  all  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  Richard  reiterated. 

The  farmer  again  changed  his  posture.  "  Then,  my  lad, 
ye've  come  to  tell  me  a  lie  !  " 

Farmer  Blaize  looked  straight  at  the  boy,  undismayed  by 
the  dark  flush  of  ire  he  had  kindled. 

"You   dare   to  call  me  a  liar!"  cried  Richard,  starting 

^P-  .  .  , 

"  I    say,"   the   farmer   renewed    his    first   emphasis,    and 

Bmacked  his  thigh  thereto,  "  that's  a  lie  !  " 

Richard  held  ovit  his  clenched  tist.  "  You  have  twice  in- 
suited  me.  You  have  struck  me :  you  have  dared  to  call  me 
a  liar.  I  would  have  apologised — I  would  have  asked  your 
pardon,  to  have  got  off  that  fellow  in  prison.  Yes  !  I  would 
have  degraded  myself  that  another  man  should  not  suffer  for 
my  deed  " — 

"  Quite  proper  !  "  interposed  the  farmer. 

"  And  you  take  this  opportunity  of  insulting  me  afresh. 
You're  a  cowai-d,  sir  !  nobody  but  a  coward  would  havo 
insulted  me  in  his  own  house." 

"  Sit  ye  down,  sit  ye  down,  young  master,"  said  the 
farmer,  indicating  the  chair  and  cooling  the  outburst  with 
his  hand.  "  Sit  ye  down.  Don't  ye  be  hasty.  If  ye  hadn't 
been  hasty  t'  other  day,  we  sh'd  a  been  friends  yet.  Sit  ye 
down,  sir.  I  sh'd  be  soiTy  to  reckon  you  out  a  liar.  Air. 
Feverel,  or  anybody  o'  your  name.  I  i-espects  ycr  father, 
though  we're  opp'site  politics.  I'm  willin'  to  think  well  o' 
you.  What  I  say  is,  that  as  you  say  an't  the  trewth.  Mind! 
I  don't  like  you  none  the  worse  for't.  But  it  an't  what  is. 
That's  all !     You  knows  it  as  well's  I  !  " 

Richard,  disdaining  to  show  signs  of  being  pacified,  angrily 
reseated  himself.  The  farmer  spoke  sense,  and  the  boy, 
after  his  late  interview  with  Austin,  had  become  cajjable  of 


THE  BITTER  CUP.  51 

perceiving  vaguely  that  a  towering  passion  is  liaidlj  the 
justification  for  a  wrong  course  of  conduct. 

"  Come,"  continued  the  farmer,  not  unkindly,  "  what  else 
have  you  to  say  ?  " 

Here  was  the  same  bitter  cup  he  had  already  once  drained 
brimming  at  Richard's  lips  again !  Alas,  poor  human 
nature !  that  empties  to  the  dregs  a  dozen  of  these  evil 
di-inks,  to  evade  the  single  one  which  Destiny,  less  cruel, 
had  insisted  upon. 

The  boy  blinked  and  tossed  it  oft". 

"  I  came  to  say  that  I  regretted  the  revenge  I  had  taken 
on  you  for  your  striking  me." 

Farmer  Blaize  nodded. 

"  And  now  ye've  done,  young  gentleman  ?  '* 

Still  another  cupful  ! 

"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged,"  Richard  formally  began. 
but  his  stomach  was  turned  ;  he  could  but  sip  and  sip,  and 
gather  a  distaste  which  threatened  to  make  the  penitential 
act  impossible.  "  Very  much  obliged,"  he  repeated  :  "  much 
obliged,  if  you  would  be  so  kind,"  and  it  struck  him  that 
Lad  he  spoken  this  at  first  he  would  have  given  it  a  word- 
ing more  persuasive  with  the  farmer  and  more  worthy  of  his 
own  pride :  more  honest,  in  fact :  for  a  sense  of  the  dis- 
honesty of  what  he  was  saying  caused  him  to  cringe  and 
simulate  humility  to  deceive  the  fai-mer,  and  the  more  he 
said  the  less  he  felt  his  words,  and,  feeling  them  less,  he 
inflated  them  more.  "  So  kind,"  he  stammered,  "  so  kind  " 
(fancy  a  Feverel  asking  this  big  brute  to  be  so  kind  !)  "  us 
to  do  me  the  favour  "  {me  the  favour  !)  "  to  exert  yourself  " 
(it's  all  to  please  Austin)  "  to  endeavour  to — hem  !  to  " 
(there's  no  saying  it !) 

The  cup  was  full  as  ever.     Richard  dashed  at  it  again. 

"What  I  came  to  ask  is,  whether  you  would  have  the 
kindness  to  try  what  you  could  do  "  (what  an  infamous  sliame 
to  have  to  beg  like  this!)  "  do  to  save — do  to  ensure — whether 

you  would  have  the  kindness " It  seemed  out  of  all 

human  power  to  gulp  it  down.  The  draught  grew  more  and 
more  abhori-ent.  To  proclaim  one's  ini(]uity,  to  apologise  for 
one's  wrongdoing;  thus  much  could  be  done ;  but  to  beg  a 
favour  of  the  offended  party — that  was  beyond  the  self- 
abasement  any  Fevei-el  could  consent  to.  Pride,  however, 
•whose  inevitable  battle  is  against  itself,  drew  aside  the  cur. 


52  TllF,  Or.DKAL  OF  RICIIAnP  FEVEKEL. 

tains  of  poor  Tom's  prison,  crviiif;  a  set-ond  timo,  "Behold 
vour  Beni'fuctur !  "  and,  with  the  wurds  burning  in  his  ears, 
llicluird  s\\  uHowed  the  dose  : 

"  Well,  then,  1  want  you,  !Mr.  I31aizc, — if  you  don't  mind 
— will  you  help  me  to  get  this  man  liakewell  oil"  his  punish- 
ment ?  " 

To  do  Farmer  Blaize  justice,  he  waited  very  patiently  for 
the  boy,  though  he  could  not  quite  see  why  he  did  not  take 
the  gate  at  the  first  offer. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  when  he  heard  and  had  pondered  on  the 
request ;  "  Hum  !  ha  !  we'll  see  about  it  t'morrow.  But  if 
he's  innocent,  you  know,  we  shan't  mak'n  guilty." 

"  It  was  I  did  it !  "  Richard  declared. 

The  farmer's  half-amused  expression  sharpened  a  bit. 

"  So,  young  gentleman !  and  you're  sorry  for  the  night's 
work  ?  " 

"  I  shall  see  that  you  are  paid  the  full  extent  of  your 
losses." 

"  Thank'ee,"  said  the  farmer  drily. 

"  And,  if  this  poor  man  is  released  to-morrow,  I  don't  care 
what  the  amount  is." 

Farmer  Blaize  deflected  his  head  twice  in  silence.  "Bri- 
bery,"  one  motion  expressed  :  "  Corruption,"  the  other. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  leaning  foi-ward,  and  fixing  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  while  he  counted  the  case  at  his  finger's  ends, 
"excuse  the  liberty,  but  wishin'  to  know  where  this  'ero 
mone3-'s  to  come  from,  I  sh'd  like  jest  t'ask  if  so  be  Sir 
Austin  know  o'  this  ?  " 

"  ^ly  father  knows  nothing  of  it,"  replied  Richard. 

The  farmer  fiung  back  in  his  chair.  "  Lie  number  Two," 
said  his  shoulders,  soured  by  the  British  aversion  to  being 
plotted  at,  and  not  dealt  with  openly. 

"  And  ye've  the  money  ready,  young  gentleman  ?  " 

*'  I  shall  ask  my  father  for  it." 

"And  he'll  hand't  out?" 

*'  Certainly  he  will !  " 

Richard  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  ever  letting 
his  father  into  his  counsels. 

"A good  three  hundred  pounds,  ye  know?"  the  farmer 
suggested. 

Xo  consideration  of  the  extent  of  damages,  and  the  size  of 


THE  BITTER  CUP.  53 

tlie  snm,  afPected  youno;  Richard,  who  said  boldly,  "  He  will 
not  object  to  pay  it  when  I  tell  him." 

It  was  natural  Farmer  Blaize  should  be  a  trifle  suspicious 
that  a  youth's  guarantee  would  hardly  be  given  for  his 
father's  readiness  to  disburse  such  a  thumping  bill,  unless 
he  had  previously  received  his  father's  sanction  and  au- 
tiiority. 

"  Hum  !  "  said  he,  *'  why  not  'a  told  him  before  ?  " 

The  farmer  threw  an  objectionable  shrewdness  into  his 
query,  that  caused  Richard  to  compress  his  m.outh  and  glance 
high. 

Farmer  Blaize  was  positive  'twas  a  lie. 

"  Hum  !  Ye  still  hold  to  't  you  fired  the  rick  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  The  blame  is  mine  !  "  quoth  Richard,  with  the  loftiness 
of  a  patriot  of  old  Rome. 

"  Na,  na ! "  the  straightforward  Briton  put  him  aside. 
"  Ye  did't,  or  ye  didn't  do't.     Did  ye  do't,  or  no  ?  " 

Thrust  in  a  corner,  Richard  said,  "  I  did  it." 

Farmer  Blaize  reached  his  hand  to  the  bell.  It  was 
answered  in  an  instant  by  little  Lucy,  who  received  orders 
to  fetch  in  a  dependent  at  Belthorpe  going  by  the  name  of 
the  Bantam,  and  made  her  exit  as  she  entered,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  young  stranger. 

"  Now,"  said  the  farmer,  "  these  be  my  principles.  I'm  a 
plain  man,  Mr.  Feverel.  Above  board  with  me,  and  you'll 
find  me  hau'lsome.  Try  to  circumvent  me,  and  I'm  a  ugly 
customer.  I'll  show  you  I've  no  animosity.  Your  father  pays 
■ — you  apologize.  That's  enough  forme  !  Lot  Tom  Bakewell 
fight't  out  with  the  Law,  and  I'll  look  on.  The  Law  wasn't 
on  the  spot,  I  suppose  ?  so  the  Law  ain't  much  witness. 
But  I  am.  Leastwise  the  Bantam  is.  I  tell  you,  young 
gentleman,  the  Bantam  saw't !  It's  no  mortal  use  whatever 
your  denyin'  that  ev'dence.  And  where's  the  good,  sir,  I 
ask?  What  comes  of  't  ?  Whether  it  be  you,  or  whether 
it  be  Tom  Bakewell — ain't  all  one  ?  If  I  holds  back,  ain't  it 
sim'lar  ?  It's  the  trewth  I  want !  And  here't  comes," 
added  the  farmer,  as  Miss  Lucy  ushered  in  the  Bantam, 
who  presented  a  curious  figure  for  that  rare  divinity  to 
enliven. 


54  TIIR  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  TEVEREL. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A   FINE   DISTINCTION. 

In  build  of  body,  gait,  and  stature,  Giles  Jinlcson,  the 
Bantam,  was  a  tolerably  fair  representative  of  the  Punic 
elephant,  Avhose  part,  with  diverse  anticipations,  the  generals 
of  the  Blaize  and  Feverel  forces,  from  opposing  ranks,  ex- 
})ected  him  to  play.  Giles,  surnamed  the  Bantam,  on 
account  of  some  forgotten  sally  of  his  youth  or  infancy, 
moved  and  looked  elephantine.  It  sufficed  that  Giles  was 
well  fed  to  assuie  that  Giles  was  faithful — if  uncorrupted. 
The  farm  which  supplied  to  him  ungrudging  provender  had 
all  his  vast  capacity  for  woi-k  in  willing  exercise:  the  farmer 
who  held  the  fai-m  his  instinct  reverenced  as  the  fountain- 
source  of  beef  and  bacon,  to  say  nothing  of  beer,  which  was 
plentiful  at  Belthorpe,  and  good.  This  Farmer  Blaize  well 
knew,  and  he  reckoned  consc(]Ucntly  that  here  was  an  animal 
always  to  be  relied  on — a  sort  of  human  composition  out  of 
dog,  horse,  and  bull,  a  cut  above  each  of  these  quadrupeds 
in  usefulness,  and  costing  proportionately  more,  but  on  the 
whole  worth  the  money,  and  therefore  invaluable,  as  every- 
thing  worth  its  money  must  be  to  a  wise  man.  When  the 
stealing  of  grain  had  been  made  known  at  Belthorpe,  the 
Bantam,  a  fellow-thresher  Avith  Tom  Bakewell,  had  shared 
with  him  the  shadow  the  guilt.  Farmer  Blaize,  if  he  hesi- 
tated which  to  suspect,  did  not  debate  a  second  as  to  which 
he  would  discard  ;  and,  when  the  Bantam  said  he  had  seen 
Tom  secreting  pilkins  in  a  sack,  Farmer  Blaize  chose  to 
believe  him,  and  off  went  poor  Tom,  told  to  rejoice  in  the 
clemency  that  S])ai'ed  his  appearance  at  Sessions. 

The  Bantam's  small  sleepy  orbits  saw  many  things,  and 
just  at  the  right  moment  it  seemed.  He  was  certainly  the 
first  to  give  the  clue  at  Belthorpe  on  the  night  of  the  con- 
flagration, and  lie  may,  therefore,  have  seen  poor  Tom 
retreating  stealthily  from  the  scene,  as  he  averred  he  did. 
Lobourne  had  its  say  on  the  subject.  Rustic  Lobourno 
hinted  broadly  at  a  young  woman  in  the  case,  and,  more- 
over, told  a  tale  of  how  these  fellow-threshers  had,  in  noble 
rivalry,  one  day  turned  upon  each  other  to  see  which  of  the 


A  FINE  DISTINCTION.  55 

two  threshed  the  best ;  whereof  the  Bantam  still  bore  marks, 
and  malice,  it  was  said.  However,  tliore  he  stood,  and 
tag2;-ed  iiis  forelocks  to  the  company,  and  if  Truth  really  had 
concealed  herself  in  him  she  must  have  been  hard  set  to  find 
her  unlikeliest  hiding-place. 

"Now,"  said  the  farmer,  marshalling  forth  his  elephant 
with  the  confidence  of  one  who  delivers  his  ace  of  trumps, 
"  tell  this  young  gentleman  what  ye  saw  on  the  night  of  the 
fire,  Bantam  !  " 

The  Bantam  jerked  a  bit  of  a  bow  to  his  patron,  and  then 
swung  round,  fully  obscuring  him  from  Richard. 

Richard  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  while  the  Bantam  in 
rudest  Doric  commenced  his  narrative.  Knowing  what  was 
to  come,  and  thoroughly  nerved  to  confute  the  main  inci- 
dent, Richard  barely  listened  to  his  barbarous  locution  :  but 
when  the  recital  arrived  at  the  point  where  the  Bantam 
affirmed  he  had  seen  "  T'm  Baak'll  wi's  owen  holes,"  Richai-d 
faced  him,  and  was  amazed  to  find  himself  being  mutely 
addressed  by  a  series  of  intensely  significant  grimaces,  signs, 
and  winks. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Why  are  you  making  those  faces 
at  me  ?  "  cried  the  boy  indignantly. 

Farmer  Blaize  leaned  round  the  Bantam  to  have  a  look  at 
him,  and  beheld  the  stolidest  mask  ever  given  to  maT<. 

"  Bain't  makin'  no  faces  at  nobody,"  growled  the  sulky 
elephant. 

The  farmer  commanded  him  to  face  about  and  finish. 

"  A  see  T'm  Baak'll,"  the  Bantam  recommenced,  and 
again  the  contortions  of  a  hoi-rible  wink  were  directed  at 
Richard.  The  boy  might  well  believe  this  churl  was  lying, 
and  he  did,  and  was  emboldened  to  exclaim — 

"  You  never  saw  Tom  Bakewell  set  fire  to  that  rick  !  " 

The  Bantam  swore  to  it,  grimacing  an  accompaniment. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Richard,  "  I  put  the  lucifers  there 
myself !  " 

The  suborned  elei)hant  was  staggered.  He  meant  to 
telegraph  to'  the  young  gentleman  that  he  was  loyal  and  trno 
to  certain  gold  pieces  that  had  been  given  him,  and  that  in 
the  right  place  and  at  the  right  time  he  should  prove  so. 
Why  was  ho  thus  suspected  ?  Why  was  he  not  under- 
stood ? 


f>6  TIIK  OKOHAL  OK  ItlOIIAKD  FKVEREL. 

'•  A  tliowt  I  SCO  'un,  tlu'ii,"  inuttcrcd  the  Bantam,  trying  a 
mitldle  course. 

'I'll is  brouglit  down  on  liim  the  farmer,  -who  roared, 
"Thought!  Ye  tliouglit  !  ^Vhat  d'ye  mean?  Speak  out, 
and  dt)n't  be  thinkin'.  Thought  ?  What  the  devil's 
that  ?  " 

"  IIow  couhl  he  sec  who  it  was  on  a  pitch-dark  night  ?  " 
Ricliard  put  in. 

"Thought!"  the  farmer  bellowed  louder.  "Thought — 
Devil  take  ye,  when  ye  took  yer  oath  on't.  Hulloa!  What 
are  3*6  screwin'  yer  eye  at  Mr.  Feverel  for  ? — I  say,  young 
gentleman,  have  you  spoke  to  this  chap  before  now  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  replied  Richard.     "  I  have  not  seen  him  before." 

Farmer  Blaize  gi-asped  the  two  arms  of  the  chair  he  sat 
on,  and  glared  his  doubts. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  the  Bantam,  "  speak  out,  and  ha'  done 
wi't.  Say  what  ye  saw,  and  none  o'  yer  thoughts.  Damn 
yer  thoughts !  Ye  saw  Tom  Bakewell  fire  that  there 
i-ick !  "  The  farmer  pointed  at  some  musk-pots  in  the 
window.  "  What  business  ha'  you  to  be  a-thinkin'  ?  Y'ou're 
a  witness  ?  Tliinkin'  au't  ev'dcnce.  What'Il  ye  say  to. 
mori'ow  before  magistrate  !  Mind  !  what  you  says  to-day, 
you'll  stick  by  to-morrow." 

Thus  adjured,  the  Bantam  hitched  his  breech.  What  on 
earth  the  young  gentleman  meant  he  was  at  a  loss  to  specu- 
late. He  could  not  believe  that  the  young  gentleman 
wanted  to  be  transported,  but  if  he  had  been  paid  to  help 
that,  why,  he  would.  And  considering  that  this  day's 
evidence  rather  bound  him  down  to  the  morrow's,  he  deter- 
mined, after  much  ploughing  and  harrowing  through  obsti- 
nate shocks  of  hair,  to  be  not  altogether  positive  as  to  the 
person.  It  is  possible  that  he  became  thereby  more  a 
mansion  of  truth  than  he  previously  had  been ;  for  the 
night,  as  he  said,  was  so  dark  that  you  could  not  see  your 
hand  before  your  face ;  and  though,  as  he  expressed  it,  you 
might  be  mortal  sure  of  a  man,  you  could  not  identify  him 
upon  oath,  ai  d  the  party  he  had  taken  for  Tom  Bakewell, 
and  could  ha  e  sworn  to,  might  have  been  the  young  gentle- 
man present,  especially  as  he  was  ready  to  swear  it  upon 
oath. 

So  ended  the  Bantam. 

Iso  sooner  had  he  ceased,  than  Farmer  Blaize  jumped  up 


A  FINE  DISTINCTION.  57 

from  his  ctair,  and  made  a  fine  effort  to  lift  him  out  of  the 
room  from  the  point  of  his  toe.  He  failed,  and  sank  back 
groaning  with  the  pain  of  the  exertion  and  disappointment. 

"  They're  liars,  every  one  !  "  he  cried.  "  Liars,  perj'rers, 
bribers,  and  c'rrupters  ! — Stop  !  "  to  the  Bantam,  who  was 
blinking  away.  "  You've  done  for  yerself  already  !  You 
Bwore  to  it  !  " 

"  A  din't !  "  said  the  Bantam  doggedly. 

"  You  swore  to  't,"  the  farmer  vociferated  afresh. 

The  Bantam  played  a  tune  upon  the  handle  of  the  door, 
and  still  affirmed  that  he  did  not ;  a  double  conti-adiction  afc 
which  the  farmer  absolutely  raged  in  his  chair,  and  was 
hoaise,  as  he  called  out  a  third  time  that  the  Bantam  had 
sworn  to  it. 

"  Noa  !  "  naid  the  Bantam,  ducking  his  poll.  "  N"oa  !  "  he 
repeated  in  a  lower  note ;  and  then,  while  a  sombre  grin 
betokening  idiotic  enjoyment  of  his  profound  casuistical 
quibl)le  worked  at  his  jaw  : — 

"  Not  up'n  o-ath  !  "  he  added,  with  a  twitch  of  the  shoulder 
and  an  angular  jerk  of  the  elbow. 

Farmer  Blaize  looked  vacantly  at  Richard,  as  if  to  ask 
him  what  he  thought  of  PJngland's  peasantry  after  the 
sample  they  had  there.  Richard  would  have  preferred  not 
to  laugh,  but  his  dignity  gave  way  to  his  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous, and  he  let  fly  an  irrepressible  peal.  The  farmer  was 
in  no  laughing  mood.  He  turned  a  wide  eye  back  to  the 
door,  "  Lucky  for'm,"  he  exclaimed,  seeing  the  Bantam  had 
vanished,  for  his  fingers  itched  to  break  that  stubborn  head. 
He  grew  very  puffy,  and  addressed  Richard  solemnly  : 

"  Now,  look  ye  here,  Mr.  Peverel  !  You've  been  a  tamper- 
ing with  my  witness.  It's  no  use  denyin' !  I  say  y'  'ave,  sir! 
You,  or  some  of  ye.  I  tlon't  care  about  no  Fcverel  !  My 
witness  there  has  been  bribed.  The  Bantam's  been  bribed," 
and  he  shivered  his  ])ipo  with  an  energetic  thump  on  the 
table — "  Bi'ibed  !     I  knows  it !     I  could  swear  to  't !  " 

"  Upon  oath  ?  "  Richard  inquired,  with  a  grave  face. 

"  Ay,  upon  oath  !  "  said  the  farmer,  not  observing  the 
impertinence. 

"  I'd  take  my  Bible  oath  on't !  He's  been  corrupted,  my 
principal  witn(>ss  !  Oh  !  it's  dam  cunnin',  but  it  won't  do 
the  trick.  I'll  transpoort  Tom  Bakewell,  sure  as  a  gun.  He 
shall  travel,  that  man  shall.     Sori-y  for  you,  Mr.  Feverol— 


58  TllK  ORDRAL  OF  RTCIIARD  FEVEREL. 

sorry  jc  haven't  seen  how  to  treat  me  proper — you,  or  yonrs. 
!Money  won't  do  everything — no  !  it  won't.  It'll  c'rrupt  a 
witness,  but  it  won't  clear  a  felon.  I'd  ha'  'soused  you,  sir  ! 
You're  a  boy  and  '11  learn  better.  I  asked  no  more  than 
payment  and  a  'pology  ;  and  that  I'd  ha'  taken  content — 
always  provided  my  witnesses  weren't  tampered  with.  Now 
you  must  stand  j-cr  luck,  all  o'  ye." 

Richard  stood  up  and  replied,  "  Very  well,  Mr.  Blaize." 

"  And  if,"  continued  the  farmer,  "  Tom  Bakewell  don't 
drag  you  into  't  after  'm,  why,  you're  safe,  as  I  hope  ye'll 
be,  sincere  !  " 

"  It  was  not  in  consideration  of  my  own  safety  that  I 
sought  this  interview  with  you,"  said  Richard,  head  erect. 

"  Grant  yo  that,"  the  farmer  responded.  "  Grant  ye  that ! 
Yer  bold  enough,  young  gentleman — comes  of  the  blood  that 
should  be  !  If  y'  had  only  ha'  spoke  trewth  ! — I  believe  yer 
father — believe  every  word  he  said.  I  do  wish  I  could  ha' 
said  as  much  of  Sir  Austin's  son  and  heir." 

"  What !  "  cried  Richard,  with  an  astonishment  hardly 
to  be  feigned,  "  you  have  seen  my  father  ?  " 

But  Farmer  Blaize  had  now  such  a  scent  for  lies  that  he 
could  detent  them  where  they  did  not  exist,  and  mumbled 
gruffly, 

"  Ay,  we  knows  all  about  that !  " 

The  boy's  perplexity  saved  him  from  being  irritated.  Who 
could  have  told  his  father  ?  An  old  fear  of  his  father  came 
upon  him,  and  a  touch  of  an  old  inclination  to  revolt. 

"  My  father  knows  of  this?"  said  he,  very  loudly,  and 
staring,  as  he  spoke,  right  through  the  farmer.  "  Who  has 
played  me  false  P  Who  would  betray  me  to  him  ?  It  was 
Austin  !  No  one  knew  it  but  Austin.  Yes,  and  it  was  Austin 
who  persuaded  me  to  come  here  and  submit  to  these  indig- 
nities. Why  couldn't  he  be  open  with  me  ?  I  shall  never 
trust  him  again  !  " 

"  And  why  not  you  with  mo,  young  gentleman  ?  "  said  the 
farmer.     "  I  sh'd  trust  you  if  ye  had." 

Richard  did  not  see  the  analogy.  He  bowed  stiffly  and 
bade  him  good  afternoon. 

Farmer  Blaize  pulled  the  bell.  "  'Company  the  young 
gentleman  out,  Lucy,"  he  waved  to  the  little  damsel  in  the 
doorway.  "  Do  the  honours.  And  Mr.  Richard,  ye  might 
ha'  made  a  friend  o'  me,  sir,  and  it's   not  too  late  so   to  do. 


THE  PRELIMINAEY  ORDEAL.  59 

Fm  not  cruel,  but  I  hate  lies.  I  whipped  my  boy  Tom, 
bic^ger  than  you,  for  not  bein'  above-board,  only  yesterday,— ^ 
ay  !  made  'un  stand  within  swing  o'  this  chair,  and  take  'a 
measure.  Now,  if  ye'll  come  down  to  me,  and  speak  trewth. 
before  the  trial — if  it's  only  five  minutes  before  't ;  or  if  Sir 
Austin,  who  's  a  gentleman,  '11  say  there's  been  no  tamperin' 
with  any  o'  my  witnesses,  his  word  for  't — well  and  good  ! 
I'll  do  my  best  to  help  oif  Tom  Bakewell.  And  I'm  glad, 
young  gentleman,  you've  got  a  conscience  about  a  poor  man, 
though  he's  a  villain.      Good  afternoon,  sir." 

Richard  marched  hastily  out  of  the  room,  and  through  the 
garden,  never  so  much  as  deigning  a  glance  at  his  wistful 
little  guide,  who  hung  at  the  gai-den  gate  to  watch  him  up 
the  lane,  wondering  a  world  of  fancies  about  the  handsome 
proud  boj. 


CHAPTER  X. 


RICHARD  PASSES  THROUGH  HIS  PRELIMINARY  ORDEAL,  AND  IS  THE 
OCCASION  OP  AN  APHORISM. 

To  have  determined  upon  an  act  something  akin  to 
heroism  in  its  way,  and  to  have  fulfilled  it  by  lying  heartily, 
and  so  subverting  the  whole  structure  built  by  good  resolu- 
tion, seems  a  sad  downfall  if  we  forget  what  human  nature, 
in  its  green  weedy  spring,  is  composed  of.  Young  Richard  had 
quitted  his  cousin  Austin  fully  resolved  to  do  his  penance 
and  drink  the  bitter  cup ;  and  he  had  drunk  it ;  drained 
many  cups  to  the  dregs  ;  and  it  was  to  no  purpose.  Still 
they  floated  before  him,  brimmed,  trebly  bitter.  Away  from 
Austin's  influence,  he  was  almost  the  same  boy  who  had 
slipped  the  guinea  into  Tom  Bakewell's  hand,  and  the 
lucifers  into  Farmer  Blaizc's  rick.  For  good  seed  is  long 
ripening ;  a  good  boy  is  not  made  in  a  minute.  Enough  that 
the  seed  was  in  him.  He  chafed  on  his  road  to  Raynhara 
at  the  scene  he  had  just  endured,  and  the  figure  of  Bel- 
thorpe's  fat  tenant  burnt  like  hot  copper  on  the  tablet  of 
his  brain,  insufferably  condescending,  and,  what  was  worse, 


60  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnABD  FEVEREL. 

in  the  riglit.  Richard,  obscured  as  his  mind's  eye  was  by 
wounded  pride,  saw  that  clearly,  and  hated  his  enemy  for  it 
the  more 

Heavy  Benson's  tongue  was  knelling  dinner  as  Richard 
arrived  at  the  Abbey.  He  hurried  up  to  his  room  to  dress. 
Accident,  or  design,  had  laid  the  book  of  Sir  Austin's  apho- 
risms open  on  the  dressing-table.  Hastily  combing  his  hair, 
Ricliard  glanced  down  and  read — 

"  The  Dog  returneth  to  his  vomit :  the  Liar  must  cat  his 
Lie." 

Underneath  was  interjected  in  pencil :  "  Tlie  Devil's 
mouthful !" 

Young  Richard  ran  downstairs  feeling  that  his  father  had 
struck  him  in  the  face. 

Sir  Austin  marked  the  scarlet  stain  on  his  son's  cheek- 
bones. He  sought  the  youth's  eye,  but  Richard  would  not 
look,  and  sat  conning  liis  plate,  an  abject  copy  of  Adrian's 
succulent  air  at  that  employment.  How  could  he  pretend 
to  the  relish  of  an  cpicui-e  when  he  was  painfully  endea- 
vouring to  masticate  The  Devil's  mouthful  h 

Heavy  Benson  sat  upon  the  wretched  dinner,  Hippias, 
usually  the  silent  member,  as  if  awakened  by  the  unnatural 
stillness,  became  sprightly,  like  the  goatsucker  owl  at  mid- 
night, and  spoke  much  of  his  book,  his  digestion,  and  his 
dreams,  and  was  spared  both  by  Algernon  and  Adrian.  One 
inconsequent  di-eam  he  related,  about  fancying  himself  quite 
young  and  rich,  and  finding  himself  suddenly  in  a  field 
cropping  razors  around  him,  when,  just  as  he  had,  by  steps 
dainty  as  those  of  a  Fi'ench  dancing-master,  reached  the 
middle,  he  to  his  dismay  beheld  a  path  clear  of  the  blood- 
thirsty steel-crop,  which  he  might  have  taken  at  first  had 
he  looked  narrowly  ;  and  there  he  was. 

Hippias's  brethren  regarded  him  Avith  eyes  that  ])lainly 
said  th(!y  wislied  he  had  remained  there.  Sir  Austin,  how. 
ever,  drew  forth  his  note- book,  and  jotted  down  a  reflection. 
A  composer  of  aphorisms  can  pluck  blossoms  even  from  a 
razor-crop.  Was  not  Hippias's  dream  the  veiy  counterpart 
of  Richard's  position  ?  He,  had  he  looked  narrowly,  might 
have  taken  the  clear  path  :  he,  too,  had  been  making  dainty 
steps  till  he  was  surrounded  by  the  grinning  blades.  And 
from  that  text  Sir  Au.stin  preached  to  his  son  when  they 
were  alone.     Little   Clare  was  still   too  unwell  to  be  ner. 


THE  PRELIMINARY  ORDEAL.  ('1 

mitted  to  attend  the  dessert,  and  father  and  son  were  soon 
closeted  together. 

It  was  a  strange  meeting.  They  seemed  to  have  been 
sepai-ated  so  long.  The  father  took  his  son's  hand ;  they 
sat  without  a  word  passing  between  them.  Silence  said 
most.  The  boy  did  not  understand  his  father :  his  father 
frequently  thwarted  him  :  at  times  he  thought  his  father 
foolish :  but  that  paternal  pressure  of  his  hand  was  eloquent 
to  him  of  how  warmly  he  v/as  beloved.  He  tried  once  or 
twice  to  steal  his  hand  away,  conscious  it  was  melting  him. 
The  spii-it  of  his  pride,  and  old  rebellion,  whispered  him  to 
be  hai-d,  unbending,  resolute.  Hard  he  had  entered  his 
father's  study :  hard  he  had  met  his  father's  eyes.  He 
could  not  meet  them  now.  His  father  sat  beside  him  gently  ; 
with  a  manner  that  was  almost  meekness,  so  he  loved  this 
boy.  The  poor  gentleman's  lips  moved.  He  was  praying 
internally  to  God  for  him. 

By  degrees  an  emotion  awoke  in  the  boy's  bosom.  Love 
is  that  blessed  wand  which  wins  the  waters  from  the  hai-d- 
ness  of  the  heart.  Richard  fought  against  it,  for  the  dignity 
of  old  rebellion.  The  tears  would  come;  hot  and  sti'iiggling 
over  the  dams  of  pride.  Shamefully  fast  they  began  to  fall. 
He  could  no  longer  conceal  them,  or  check  the  sobs.  Sir 
Austin  drew  him  nearer  and  nearer,  till  the  beloved  head 
■was  on  his  breast. 

A.n  hour  afterwards,  Adrian  Harley,  Austin  Wentwovth, 
and  Algernon  Feverel  were  summoned  to  the  baronet's 
study. 

Adrian  came  last.  There  was  a  style  of  affable  omnipo- 
tence about  the  wise  youth  as  he  slung  himself  into  a  cluiir, 
and  made  an  arch  of  the  points  of  his  fingers,  through  ft'hich 
to  gaze  on  his  blundering  kinsmen.  Careless  as  one  may  be 
whose  sagacity  has  foreseen,  and  whose  benevolent  efforts 
have  forestalled,  the  point  of  danger  at  the  threshold,  Adrian 
crossed  his  legs,  and  only  intruded  on  their  introductory 
remarks  so  far  as  to  hum  half  audibly  at  intervals — 

"  Ripton  and  Ilichard  were  two  pretty  men," 

in  parody  of  the  old  ballad.  Young  Richard's  red  eyes,  and 
the  baronet's  ruffled  demeanom-,  told  him  that  an  explanation 
had  taken  place,  and  a  reconciliation.     That  was  well.     The 


62  THE  ORDKAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

baronet  ■would  now  pay  cliccrfully.  Adrian  summed  and 
considered  these  matters,  and  barely  listened  when  the 
baronet  called  attention  to  what  he  had  to  say :  which  was 
elaborately  to  inform  fill  present,  what  all  present  very  well 
knew,  that  a  riek  had  been  fired,  that  his  son  was  im])licated 
as  an  accessory  to  the  fact,  that  the  perpetrator  Avas  now 
imprisoned,  and  that  Richard's  family  were,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  bound  in  honour  to  do  their  utmost  to  effect  the  man's 
release. 

Then  the  baronet  stated  that  he  had  himself  been  down 
to  Belthoi'pe,  his  son  likewise  :  and  that  he  had  found  every 
disposition  in  Bhiize  to  meet  his  wishes. 

The  lamp  which  ultimately  was  sure  to  be  lifted  up  to 
illumine  the  acts  of  this  secretive  race  began  slowly  to 
dispread  its  rays  ;  and,  as  statement  followed  statement,  they 
saw  that  all  had  known  of  the  business  :  that  all  had  been 
down  to  Belthorpe  :  all  save  the  wise  youth  Adrian,  who, 
with  due  defei'ence  and  a  sai-castic  shrug,  objected  to  the 
proceeding,  as  putting  them  in  the  hands  of  the  man  Blaize. 
His  wisdom  shone  forth  in  an  oration  so  persuasive  and 
aphoristic  that  had  it  not  been  based  on  a  plea  against 
honour,  it  would  haA^e  made  Sir  Austin  waver.  But  its 
basis  was  expediency,  and  the  baronet  had  abetter  aphorism 
of  his  own  to  confute  him  with. 

"  Expediency  is  man's  wisdom,  Adrian  Harley.  Doing 
right  is  God's." 

Adrian  curbed  his  desire  to  ask  Sir  Austin  whether  an 
attempt  to  counteract  the  just  Avorking  of  the  laAV  was  doing 
right.  The  direct  application  of  an  aphorism  was  unpopular 
at  Raynham. 

"  I  am  to  understand  then,"  said  he,  ''  that  Blaize  consents 
not  to  press  the  prosecution." 

"  Of  course  he  won't,"  Algernon  remarked.  "  Confound 
him !  he'll  have  his  money,  and  what  does  he  want 
besides  ?" 

"  These  agricultural  gentlemen  are  delicate  customers  to 
deal  Avith.     However,  if  he  really  consents" 

"  I  have  his  promise,"  said  the  baronet,  fondling  his  .son. 

Young  Richard  looked  up  to  his  father,  as  if  he  wished  to 
Bpeak.  He  said  nothing,  and  Sir  Austin  took  it  as  a  mute 
reply  to  his  caresses,  and  caressed  him  the  more.  Adrian 
perceived  a  reserve  in  the  boy's  manner,  and  as  he  was  not 


THE  PRELIMINAEY  ORDEAL.  63 

rnite  satisfied  that  his  chief  should  suppose  him  to  have 
bern  the  only  idle,  and  not  the  most  acute  and  vigilant 
member  of  the  family,  he  commenced  a  cross-examination 
of  him  by  asking  who  had  last  spoken  "with  the  tenant  of 
Belthorpe  ? 

"  I  think  I  saw  him  last,"  murmured  Richard,  and  relin- 
quished his  father's  hand. 

Adrian  fastened  on  his  prey.  "  And  left  him  with  a 
distinct  and  satisfactory  assurance  of  his  amicable  inten- 
tions ?" 

"No,"  said  Richard. 

"  Not  ?"  the  Feverels  joined  in  astounded  chorus. 

Richard  sidled  away  from  his  father,  and  repeated  a 
shamefaced  "  No." 

"  Was  he  hostile  ?"  inquired  Adrian,  smoothing  his  palms, 
and  smiling, 

"  Yes,"  the  boy  confessed. 

Plere  was  quite  another  view  of  their  position.  Adrian, 
generally  patient  of  results,  triumphed  sti-ongly  at  having 
evoked  it,  and  turned  upon  Austin  Wentworth,  reproving 
him  for  inducing  the  boy  to  go  down  to  Belthorpe.  Austin 
looked  grieved.  He  feared  that  Richard  had  failed  in  his 
good  resolve. 

"  I  thought  it  his  duty  to  go,"  he  observed. 

*'  It  was!"  said  the  baronet  emphatically. 

"  And  you  see  wliat  comes  of  it,  sir,"  Adrian  struck  in. 
*'  These  agricultural  gentlemen,  I  repeat,  are  delicate  cus- 
tomers  to  deal  witli.  For  my  part  I  would  prefer  being  in  the 
hands  of  a  policeman.  We  are  decidedly  collared  by  Bhiizo. 
What  were  his  words,  Ricky  ?     Give  it  in  his  own  Doric." 

"He  said  he  would  transport  Tom  Bakewell." 

Adrian  smoothed  his  palms,  and  smiled  again.  Then  they 
could  afford  to  defy  Mr.  Blaize,  he  informed  them  signiti- 
cantly,  and  made  once  more  a  mysterious  allusion  to  the 
Punic  elephant,  bidding  his  relatives  be  at  peace.  Tlioy  wei-e 
attaching,  in  his  (Opinion,  too  much  importance  to  Richard's 
comi)Iic!ity.  The  man  was  a  fool,  and  a  very  extraoi'dinary 
arsonite,  to  have  an  accomplice  at  all.  It  was  a  thing 
unknown  in  the  annals  of  rick-burning.  But  one  would  bo 
severer  than  law  itself  to  say  that  a  boy  of  fourteen  had 
instigated  to  crime  a  full-grown  man.  At  that  rate  tlie  boy 
w,is    "  fnther  of  the  man  "   with  a  vengeance,  and  one  mighl 


64         THE  OnDEAT.  OF  RKMIARH  FnVKRF.L. 

hear  next  that  "the  baby  was  father  of  the  boy.'"  Tlu^y 
■woiiUl  find  common  sonso  a  more  benevolent  ruler  tlian 
poetical  metajihysics. 

When  he  had  done,  Austin,  with  his  customary  directness, 
asked  him  what  he  meant. 

"I  confess,  Adrian,"  said  the  baronet,  hearing  him  expos- 
tulate with  Austin's  stupidity,  "  I  for  one  am  at  a  loss. 
I  have  heard  that  this  man,  Bakewell,  chooses  voluntai-ily 
not  to  inculpate  my  son.  Seldom  have  I  heai'd  anj'thing  tliat 
so  gratified  me.  It  is  a  view  of  innate  nobleness  in  the 
rustic's  character  which  many  gentlemen  might  take  example 
from.  We  are  bound  to  do  our  utmost  for  the  man."  And, 
Baj'ing  that  he  should  pay  a  second  visit  to  Belthorpe,  to 
inquire  into  the  reasons  for  the  farmer's  sudden  exposition 
of  vindictiveness,  Sir  Austin  rose. 

Before  he  left  the  room  Algernon  asked  Richard  if  the 
farmer  had  vouchsafed  any  reasons,  and  the  boy  then  spoke 
of  the  tampering  with  the  witnesses,  and  the  Bantam's  "Not 
upon  oath  !  "  which  caused  Adrian  to  choke  with  laughter. 
Even  the  baronet  smiled  at  so  cunning  a  distinction  as  that 
involved  in  swearing  a  thing,  and  not  swearing  it  upon  oath. 

"  How  little,"  he  exclaimed,  "  does  one  yeoman  knovv 
another  !  To  elevate  a  distinction  into  a  difference  is  the 
natural  action  of  their  minds.  I  will  point  that  out  to 
Blaize.     He  shall  see  that  the  idea  is  native  born." 

Remorselessly  Richard  saw  his  father  go  forth,  Adrian, 
too,  was  ill  at  ease. 

"  This  trotting  down  to  Belthorpe  spoils  all,"  said  he. 
**  The  affair  would  pass  over  to-morrow — Blaize  has  no  wit^ 
liesses.  The  old  rascal  is  only  standing  out  for  more 
money." 

"  No,  he  isn't,"  Richard  corrected  him.  "  It's  not  that.  I'm 
sure  he  believes  his  witnesses  liave  been  tampered  with,  as  he 
calls  it." 

"  What  if  they  have,  boy  ?  "  Adrian  put  it  boldly,  "  The 
ground  is  cut  from  under  his  feet." 

"Blaize  told  me  that  if  my  father  would  give  his  word 
there  had  been  nothing  of  the  sort,  he  would  take  it.  My 
father-  will  give  his  word." 

"  Then,"  said  Adrian,  "  you  had  better  stop  him  from  going 
down." 

Austin    looked    at    Adrian    k'.-enly,    and    questioned    him 


THE  rRELIMINAPvY  OFvDEAL.  65 

whether  he  thought  the  farmer  was  justified  in  his  snspicions. 
The  wise  youth  was  not  to  be  entrapped.  He  had  only  been 
given  to  understand  that  the  witnesses  were  tolerably  unstable, 
and,  like  the  Bantam,  ready  to  swear  lustily,  but  not  upon  the 
Book.  How  given  to  understand,  he  chose  not  to  explain, 
but  he  reiterated  that  the  chief  should  not  be  allowed  to  go 
down  to  Belthorpe. 

Sir  Austin  was  in  the  lane  leading  to  the  farm  when  ho 
heard  steps  of  some  one  running  behind  him.  It  was  dark, 
and  he  shook  off  the  hand  that  laid  hold  of  his  cloak,  roughly, 
not  recognising  his  son. 

"  It's  I,  sir,"  said  Richard  panting.  "  Pardon  me.  You 
musn't  go  in  there." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  the  baronet,  putting  his  arm  about  him. 

"  Not  now,"  continued  the  boy.  "  I  will  tell  you  all  to-night. 
I  must  see  the  farmer  myself.  It  was  my  fault,  sir.  I— I 
lied  to  him — the  Liar  must  eat  his  Lie.  Oh,  forgive  me  for 
disgracing  you,  sir.  I  did  it — I  hope  I  did  it  to  save  Tom 
Bakewell.     Let  me  go  in  alone,  and  speak  the  truth." 

"  Go,  and  I  will  wait  for  you  here,"  said  his  father. 

The  wind  that  bowed  the  old  elms,  and  shivered  the  dead 
leaves  in  the  air,  had  a  voice  and  a  meaning  for  the  baronet 
during  that  half-hour's  lonely  pacing  up  and  down  under  the 
darkness,  awaiting  his  boy's  return.  The  solemn  gladness  of 
his  heart  gave  nature  a  tongue.  Through  the  desolation  flying 
overhead — the  wailing  of  the  Mother  of  Plenty  across  the 
bare-swept  land — he  caught  intelligible  signs  of  the  beneficent 
order  of  the  universe,  from  a  heart  newly  confii'med  in  its 
grasp  of  the  principle  of  human  goodness,  as  manifested  in 
the  dear  child  who  had  just  left  him  ;  confirmed  in  its  belief 
in  the  ultimate  victory  of  good  within  us,  without  which 
nature  has  neither  music  nor  meaning,  and  is  rock,  stone, 
tree,  and  nothing  more. 

In  the  dark,  the  dead  leaves  beating  on  his  face,  he  drew 
forth  the  note-book,  and  with  groping  fingers  traced  out : 
"  There  is  for  the  mind  but  one  grasp  of  happiness :  from 
that  uppermost  pinnacle  of  wisdom,  whence  we  see  that  ihit 
world  is  well  desi":ncd." 


66  THE  onnr.AL  of  nicriARD  feverel. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IX  WUlCn  THE  LAST  ACT  OK  TllK  BAKKWELL  COMEDY  IS  CLOSED  IN 
A  LETTER. 

Of  all  the  chief  actors  in  the  Bakewell  Comedy  Master 
Ripton  Thompson  awaited  the  fearful  morning  which  Avas 
to  decide  Tom's  fate,  in  dolefulest  mood,  and  suffered 
the  gravest  mental  teiTors.  Adrian,  on  parting  with  him, 
had  taken  casual  occasion  to  speak  of  the  position  of  the 
criminal  in  modem  Europe,  assuring  him  that  International 
Treaty  now  did  what  Universal  Empire  had  aforetime  done, 
and  that  among  Atlantic  barbarians  now,  as  among  the 
Scythians  of  old,  an  offender  would  find  precarious  refuge 
and  an  emissary  haunting  him. 

In  the  paternal  lionie,  under  the  roofs  of  Law,  and 
removed  from  the  influence  of  his  conscienceless  young  chief, 
the  staggering  nature  of  the  act  he  had  put  his  hand  to,  its 
awful  felonious  aspect,  overwhelmed  poor  Ripton.  He  saw 
it  now  for  the  first  time.  "  Why  it's  next  to  murder  !  "  he 
cried  out  to  his  amazed  soul,  aiid  wandered  about  the  house 
with  a  prickly  skin.  Thoughts  of  America,  and  commencing 
life  afresh  as  an  innocent  gentleman,  had  crossed  the 
agitated  brain  of  Ripton.  He  wrote  to  his  friend  Richard, 
proposing  to  collect  disposable  funds,  and  embark,  in  case  of 
Tom's  breaking  his  word,  or  of  accidental  discovery.  He 
dared  not  confide  the  secret  to  his  family,  as  his  leader  had 
sternly  enjoined  him  to  avoid  any  weakness  of  that  kind; 
and,  being  by  nature  honest  and  communicative,  the  restric- 
tion was  painful,  and  melancholy  fell  upon  the  boy.  Mama 
Thompson  attributed  it  to  love.  The  daughters  of  parch- 
ment  rallied  him  concerning  Miss  Clare  Forey.  His  hourly 
letters  to  Raynham,  his  silence  as  to  everything  and  every- 
body there,  his  loss  of  appetite,  nervousness,  and  unwonted 
propensitv  to  sudden  inflammation  of  the  cheeks,  were  set 
c^own  for  sure  signs  of  the  passion.  Miss  Letitia  Thompson, 
ihe  pretty  an  1  least  parehmenty  one,  destined  by  her  Papa 
for  the  heir  of  Raynham,  and  perfectly  aware  of  her  brilliant 
future,  up  ti  which  she  had,  since  Ripton's  departure, 
dressed  and  g  imaced,  and  studied  cadences  (the  latter  with 
snch  success,  though  not  yet  fifteen,  that  she  languished  to 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COMEDY.  67 

her  maid,  and  melted  the  small  factotum  footman) — Miss 
Letty,  whose  insatiable  thirst  for  intimations  about  the 
young  heir  Rijiton  could  not  satisfy,  tormented  him  daily  in 
revenge,  and  once,  quite  unconsciously,  gave  the  lad  a  fearful 
turn  ;  for  after  dinner,  vphen  Mr.  Thompson  read  the  paper 
by  the  fire,  preparatory  to  sleeping  at  his  accustomed  post, 
and  Mama  Thompson  and  her  submissive  female  brood  sat 
tasking  the  swift  intricacies  of  the  needle,  and  emulating 
them  with  the  tongue,  Miss  Letty  stole  behind  Ripton's 
chair,  and  introduced  between  him  and  his  book  the  Latin 
initial  letter,  large  and  illuminated,  of  the  theme  she  sup- 
posed  to  be  absorbing  him,  as  it  did  herself.  The  unexpected 
vision  of  this  accusing  Captain  of  the  Alphabet,  this 
resplendent  and  haunting  A,  fronting  him  bodily,  threw 
Ripton  straight  back  in  his  chair,  while  Guilt,  with  her 
ancient  indecision  what  coloui-s  to  assume  on  detection,  flew 
from  red  to  white,  from  white  to  red,  across  his  fallen  chaps. 
Letty  laughed  triumphantly. 

"  Ah — a  !  "  she  sang,  "  you  are  found  out,  Mr.  Mum  !  "  and 
innocently  followed  up  the  attack  by  asking  him  how  he 
would  wear  his  badge,  before  or  behind  ?  which  pi^ecipitated 
Ripton  from  the  i-oom,  in  sick  certainty  that  he  was  dis- 
covered, and  thrilled  the  motherly  heart  of  Mama  Thompson 
with  the  blissful  prospect  of  marrying  two  of  her  brood  to 
the  House  of  Feverel. 

"  Why,  what  does  A  stand  for  ?  Silly  !  "  said  Letitia,  after 
rallying  her  brother  next  morning  at  breakfast.  "  For 
Angel,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  for  America,"  Ripton  answered  gloomily. 

"  Yes,  and  you  know  Avhat  else  ! "  rejoined  his  persecutor, 
while  another  sister,  pi-eviously  insti-ucted,  presumed  it 
might  possibly  stand  for  Amor. 

"  And  for  Arson,"  added  the  deep  paternal  voice,  unwit- 
tingly springing  a  mine  under  poor  Ripton. 

Letty 's  study  of  the  aspects  of  love,  and  of  the  way  young 
people  should  look,  and  of  the  things  they  should  do,  under 
the  dominion  of  the  passion,  was  not  much  assisted  by  its 
outward  development  in  the  supposed  love-stricken  youth. 
''I'm  sure,"  she  thought,  "I  shall  never  be  like  that.  lie 
bounds  in  his  seat.  He  never  looks  comfortable.  He  seems 
to  hate  us  all,  and  does  nothing  but  mumble  his  food,  and 

v2 


68  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVFRRL. 

pirtwl,  and  fro\Yn.     If  tliat's  love,  I  can't  do  it !  "  she  Roriow. 
fully  concliult'd  licr  rodections. 

The  delivery  of  a  letter  into  Master  Ripton's  hands,  how. 
ever,  furnished  her  Mitli  other  and  likelier  appearances  to 
study.  For  scarce  had  Ripton  plunged  his  head  into  the 
missive  than  he  gave  way  to  violent  transports,  such  as  the 
healthy- minded  little  damsel,  for  all  her  languisliing 
cadences,  deemed  she  really  could  express  were  a  downright 
declaration  to  be  made  to  her.  The  boy  did  not  stop  at 
table.  Quickly  recollecting  the  presence  of  his  family,  he 
rushel  to  his  own  room.  And  now  Miss  Letty's  ingenuity 
was  taxed  to  gain  possession  of  that  letter.  In  love,  it  is 
said,  all  stratagems  are  fair,  and  many  little  ladies  trans- 
verse the  axiom  by  applying  it  to  discover  the  secrets  of 
their  friends.  Letty  i-ansacked  the  drawers  in  Ripton's 
room,  she  dived  her  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  garments 
lying  about,  she  turned  down  the  pillow,  she  spied  under 
the  mattress  of  his  bed,  "with  an  easy  conscience ;  and  if  she 
found  nothing,  of  course,  as  she  was  doing  a  wrong,  she  did 
not  despair  of  gaining  her  object,  and  soon  knew  that  Rip- 
ton  carried  it  about  in  his  left  jacket-pocket,  persecuting 
Ripton  with  her  caresses,  till  she  felt  the  tantalising  trea- 
sure ci-ack  beneath  her  fingers.  Some  sisters  would  have 
coaxed  him  for  a  sight  of  it.  Letty  was  not  so  foolish  :  she 
did  not  allude  to  it,  and  was  still  hovering  round  the  pocket, 
at  a  loss  to  devise  any  new  scheme,  when  accident  bestowed 
on  her  what  artifice  denied.  They  wei-e  standing  on  a  hill 
together,  and  saw  some  people  of  their  acquaintance  coming 
up  in  a  pony-chaise.  Letty  told  Ripton  to  wave  his  hand, 
kerchief,  which  he  snatched  from  the  very  pocket,  and 
waved  vigorously,  and  continued  waving,  heedless  that  his 
sister  had  on  a  sudden  lost  her  interest  in  the  pony-cliaise. 
Indeed  she  presently  commanded  him  to  turn  a  contrary 
way,  and  was  voluble  with  reasons  for  getting  home  imme- 
diately, though  they  had  set  out  for  a  long  walk  into  the 
country.  Once  home,  Letitia  darted  up  stairs  to  be  alone 
with  her  naughty  self.  She  had  the  letter.  Ripton  hiid 
dropped  it  as  he  drew  forth  his  handkerchief.  With  the 
eyes  of  amazement  she  read  this  foreign  matter : — 

"  Dear  Ripton, — If  Tom  had  been  committed  I  would  have 
ehot  old   Blaize.      Do   you  know   my  father  was  behind  us 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COMEDY.  69 

kliat  night  when  Clare  saw  the  ghost  and  hcai-d  all  we  said 
before  the  fire  burst  out.  It  is  no  use  tiying  to  conceal  any- 
thing from  him.  "Well  as  you  are  in  an  awful  state  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it.  After  you  left  Ripton  I  had  a  conver- 
sation with  Austin  and  he  persuaded  me  to  g'o  down  to  old 
Bhiize  and  ask  him  to  help  off  Tom.  I  went  for  I  would 
have  done  anything  for  Tom  after  what  he  said  to  Austin 
and  I  defied  the  old  churl  to  do  his  worst.  Then  he  said  if 
my  father  paid  the  money  and  nobody  had  tampered  with 
his  witnesses  he  would  not  mind  if  Tom  did  get  off  and  he 
had  his  chief  witness  in  called  the  Bantam  very  like  his 
master  I  think  and  the  Bantam  began  winking  at  me 
tremendjously  as  you  say,  and  said  he  had  sworn  he  saw 
Tom  Bakewell  but  not  upon  oath.  He  meant  not  on  the 
Bible.  He  could  swear  to  it  but  not  on  the  Bible.  I  burst 
out  laughing  and  you  should  have  seen  the  rage  old  Blaize 
was  in.  It  was  splendid  fun.  Then  we  had  a  consultation 
at  home  Austin  Rady  my  father  Uncle  Algernon  who  has 
come  down  to  us  again  and  your  friend  in  prosperity  and 
adversity  R.  D.  F.  My  father  said  he  would  go  down  to  old 
Blaize  and  give  him  the  word  of  a  gentleman  we  had  not 
tampered  with  his  witnesses  and  when  he  was  gone  we  were 
all  talking  and  Rady  says  he  must  not  see  the  farmer.  I  am 
as  cei'tain  as  I  live  that  it  was  Rady  bribed  the  Bantam. 
Well  I  ran  and  caught  up  my  father  and  told  him  not  to  go 
in  to  old  Blaize  but  I  would  and  eat  my  words  and  tell  him 
the  truth.  He  waited  for  me  in  the  lane.  Never  mind  what 
passed  between  me  and  old  Blaize.  He  made  me  beg  and 
pray  of  him  not  to  press  it  against  Tom  and  then  to  complete 
it  he  brought  in  a  little  girl  a  niece  of  his  and  says  to  me 
she's  your  best  friend  after  all  and  told  me  to  thaidc  her. 
A  little  girl  twelve  years  of  age.  What  business  had  she  to 
mix  herself  up  in  my  matters.  Depend  upon  it  Ripton 
wherever  there  is  mischief  there  are  g-irls  I  think.  She  had 
the  insolence  to  notice  my  face,  and  asR  me  not  to  be  uiiha]  py 
I  was  polite  of  course  but  I  would  not  look  at  her.  Well  me 
morning  came  and  Tom  was  had  up  before  Sir  Miles  Pap- 
worth.  It  was  Sir  Miles  gout  gave  us  the  time  or  Tom  wouh' 
have  been  had  up  before  we  could  do  anything.  Adrian  d  I 
not  want  me  to  go  but  my  father  said  I  should  accompany 
him  and  held  my  hand  all  the  time.  I  shall  l)e  carel'ul  about 
getting  into  these  scrapes    again.      Wlien   you    havo    done 


70  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTCnARD  FEVEREL. 

anytliinfT  hononrable  jon  do  not  mind  but  getting  amonq 
policemen  niid  magistrates  makes  yon  asliamed  of  yourself. 
Sir  Miles  was  very  attentive  to  my  father  and  me  and  dead 
against  Tom.  AVe  sat  beside  him  and  Tom  was  brought  in. 
Sir  Miles  told  my  father  that  if  there  was  one  thing  that 
showed  a  low  villain  it  was  rick-burning.  What  do  you 
think  of  that.  I  looked  him  straight  in  the  face  and  he  said 
to  me  he  was  doing  me  a  service  in  getting  Tom  committed 
and  clearing  the  country  of  such  fellows  and  Rady  began 
laughing.  I  hate  Rady.  My  father  said  his  son  was  not  in 
haste  to  inherit  and  have  estates  of  his  own  to  watch  and 
Sir  Miles  laughed  too.  I  thought  we  were  discovered  at 
first.  Then  they  began  the  examination  of  Tom.  The 
Tinker  was  the  first  witness  and  he  proved  that  Tom  had 
spoken  against  old  Blaize  and  said  something  about  buminar 
his  rick.  I  wished  I  had  stood  in  the  lane  to  Bursley  with 
him  alone.  Our  country  lawyer  we  engaged  for  Tom  cross- 
questioned  him  and  then  he  said  he  was  not  ready  to  swear 
to  the  exact  words  that  had  passed  between  him  and  Tom. 
I  should  think  not.  Then  came  another  who  swore  he  had 
seen  Tom  lurkim;  about  the  farmer's  grounds  that  night. 
Then  came  the  Bantam  and  I  saw  him  look  at  Rady.  I  was 
tremendjously  excited  and  my  father  kept  pressing  my  hand. 
Just  fancy  my  being  brought  to  feel  that  a  word  from  that 
fellow  would  make  me  miserable  for  life  and  he  must  perjure 
himself  to  help  me.  That  comes  of  giving  way  to  passion. 
My  father  says  when  we  do  that  we  are  calling  in  the  devil 
as  doctor.  Well  the  Bantam  was  told  to  state  what  he  had 
seen  and  the  moment  he  began  Rady  who  was  close  by  me 
began  to  shake  and  he  was  laughing  I  knew  though  his  face 
was  as  grave  as  Sir  Miles.  You  never  heard  such  a  rigmarole 
but  I  could  not  laugh.  He  said  he  thought  he  was  certain 
he  had  seen  somebody  by  the  rick  and  it  was  Tom  Bakewell 
who  was  the  only  man  he  knew  who  had  a  giiidge  against 
Farmer  Blaize  and  if  the  object  had  been  a  little  bigger  he 
would  not  mind  swearing  to  Tom  and  would  swear  to  him 
for  he  was  dead  certain  it  was  Tom  only  what  he  saw  looked 
smaller  and  it  was  pitch-dark  at  the  time.  He  was  asked 
what  time  it  was  he  saw  the  person  steal  away  from  the  rick 
and  then  he  began  to  scratch  his  head  and  said  supper-time. 
Then  they  asked  what  time  he  had  supper  and  he  said  nine 
o'clock  by  the  clock  and  we  proved  that  at  nine  o'clock  Tom 


LAST  ACT  OF  THE  COBIEDT.  77. 

was  drinking  in  tlie  ale-house  with  the  Tinker  at  Barsley  and 
Sir  Miles  swore  and  said  he  was  afraid  he  could  not  commit 
Tom  and  when  he  heard  that  Tom  looked  up  at  me  and  I  say 
he  is  a  noble  fellow  and  no  one  shall  sneer  at  Tom  while  I 
live.  Mind  that.  Well  Sir  Miles  asked  us  to  dine  with  him 
and  Tom  was  safe  and  I  am  to  have  him  and  educate  him  if 
I  like  for  my  servant  and  I  will.  And  I  will  give  money  to 
his  mother  and  make  her  rich  and  he  shall  never  repent  he 
knew  me.  I  say  Rip.  The  Bantam  must  have  seen  me. 
It  was  when  I  went  to  stick  in  the  lucifers.  As  we  were  all 
going  home  from  Sir  Miles's  at  night  he  has  lots  of  red- 
faced  daughters  but  I  did  not  dance  with  them  though  they 
had  music  and  were  full  of  fun  and  I  did  not  care  to  I  was 
so  delighted  and  almost  let  it  out.  When  we  left  and  rode 
home  Rady  said  to  my  father  the  Bantam  was  not  such  a 
fool  as  he  was  thought  and  my  father  said  one  must  be  in  a 
state  of  great  personal  exaltation  to  apply  that  epithet  to  any 
man  and  Rady  shut  his  mouth  and  I  gave  my  pony  a  clap  of 
the  heel  for  joy.  I  think  my  father  suspects  what  Rady 
did  and  does  not  approve  of  it.  And  he  need  not  have  done 
it  after  all  and  might  have  spoilt  it.  I  have  been  obliged  to 
order  him  not  to  call  me  Ricky  for  he  stops  short  at  Rick  so 
that  everybody  knows  what  he  means.  My  dear  Austin  is 
going  to  South  America.  My  pony  is  in  capital  condition. 
My  father  is  the  cleverest  and  best  man  in  the  world.  Clare 
is  a  little  better.  I  am  quite  happy.  I  hope  we  shall  meet 
Roon  my  dear  Old  Rip  and  we  will  not  get  into  any  more  tre- 
mendjous  scrapes  will  we. — I  remain,  Your  sworn  friend, 

"  Richard  Dopja  Feverel." 

"P.S.  I  am  to  have  a  nice  River  Yacht.  Good-bye,  Rip. 
Mind  you  learn  to  box.  Mind  you  are  not  to  show  this  to 
any  of  your  friends  on  pain  of  my  displeasure. 

"  N.B.  Lady  B.  was  bo  angry  when  I  told  her  that  I  had 
not  come  to  her  before.  She  would  do  anytliiiig  in  the  world 
for  me.  I  like  her  next  best  to  my  father  and  Austin.  Good- 
bye old  Rip." 

Poor  little  Lctitia,  after  three  perusals  of  this  ingonuoua 
epistle,  where  the  laws  of  punctuation  were  so  loftily  dis- 
regarded, resigned  it  to  one  of  the  pockets  of  her  brother 
Ripton's  best  jacket,  deeply  smitten  with  the  careless  com. 


72  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTCnARD  FEVE"nKL. 

poser.  And  so  ended  the  last  act  of  the  Bakcwcll  Comedy, 
on  which  the  curtain  cUises  Avith  Sir  Austin's  point iuir  out 
to  his  friends  the  beneficial  action  of  the  System  in  it  i'rum 
bL';j:imiinp:  to  end. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON. 


Laying  of  gliosts  is  a  public  duty,  and  as  the  mystery  of 
the  apparition  that  had  frightened  little  Clare  was  never 
solved  on  the  stage  of  events  at  Raynham,  where  dread 
walked  the  Abbey,  let  us  go  behind  the  scenes  a  moment. 
Morally  superstitious  as  the  baronet  was,  the  character  of 
his  mind  was  opposed  to  anything  like  spiritual  agency  in 
the  aifairs  of  men,  and,  when  the  matter  was  made  clear  to 
him,  it  shook  off  a  weight  of  weakness  and  restored  his 
mental  balance  ;  so  that  from  this  time  he  went  about  more 
like  the  man  he  had  once  been,  grasping  more  thoroughly 
the  great  truth,  that  This  "World  is  well  designed.  Nay,  ho 
could  laugh  on  hearing  Adrian,  in  reminiscence  of  the  ill  luck 
of  one  of  the  family  members  at  its  first  manifestation,  call 
the  uneasy  spirit,  Algernon's  Leg.    Mi'S.  Doria  was  outraged. 

She  m  liutained  that  her  child  had  seen .     Xot  to  believe 

in  it  was  almost  to  rob  her  of  her  personal  property.  After 
satisfactorily  studying  his  old  state  of  mind  in  her.  Sir 
Austin,  moved  by  pity,  took  her  aside  one  day  and  showed 
her  that  her  Ghost  could  write  words  in  the  flesh.  It  was 
a  letter  from  the  unhappy  lady  who  had  given  Richard  birtli, 
- — brief  cold  lines,  simply  telling  him  his  house  would  be 
disturbed  by  her  no  more.  Cold  lines,  1:  nt  penned  by  what 
heart-broken  abnegation,  and  underlying  them  what  anguish 
of  soul !  Like  most  who  dealt  with  him.  Lady  Feverel 
thought  her  husband  a  man  fatally  stern  and  implacable, 
and  she  acted  as  silly  creatures  will  act  when  they  fancy 
they  see  a  fate  against  them  :  she  neither  petitioned  for  her 
right  nor  claimed  it:  she  tried  to  ease  her  heart's  yearning 
by  stealth,  and  now  she  renounced  all.  Mrs.  Doria,  not 
wanting  in  the  family  tenderness  and  softness,  shuddered  at 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON".  73 

him  for  accepting  tLe  sacrifice  so  composedly  :  bui  he  bad« 
lier  to  think  how  distracting  to  this  boy  would  be  the  sight 
of  such  relations  between  mother  and  father.  A  few  years, 
and  as  man  he  should  know,  and  judge,  and  love  her.  "Let 
this  be  her  penance,  not  inflicted  by  me!"  Mrs.  Doria 
bowed  to  the  System  for  another,  not  opining  when  it  would 
be  her  tuiTi  to  bow  for  herself. 

Further  behind  the  scenes  we  observe  Rizzio  and  Mary- 
grown  older,  much  disenchanted:  she  discrowned,  dishevelled, 
— he  witb  gouty  fingers  on  a  greasy  guitar.  The  Diaper 
Sandoe  of  promise  lends  his  pen  for  small  hires.  His  fame 
has  sunk  ;  his  bodily  girth  has  sensibly  increased.  What  he 
can  do,  and  will  do,  is  still  his  theme ;  meantime  the  juice  of 
tlie  jnnij^er  is  in  requisition,  and  it  seems  those  small  hires 
cannot  be  performed  without  it.  Returning  from  her  wretched 
journey  to  her  wretcheder  home,  the  lady  had  to  listen  to  a 
mild  reproof  from  easy-going  Diaper, — a  reproof  so  mild  tliat 
lie  couched  it  in  blank  verse :  for,  seldom  writing  metrically 
now,  he  took  to  talking  it.  With  a  fluent  sympathetic  tear, 
he  explained  to  her  that  she  was  damaging  her  interests  by 
these  proceedings ;  nor  did  he  shrink  from  undertaking  to 
elucidate  wherefore.  Pluming  a  smile  upon  his  succulent 
mouth,  he  told  her  that  the  poverty  she  lived  in  was  utterly 
unbefitting  her  gentle  nurture,  and  that  he  had  reason  to 
believe — could  assure  her — that  an  annuity  Avas  on  the  poinv 
of  being  granted  her  by  her  husband.  And  Diaper  broke 
liis  bud  of  a  smile  into  full  flower  as  he  delivered  the  radiant 
information.  She  learnt  that  he  liad  applied  to  her  husband 
for  money.  It  is  hard  to  have  one's  last  prop  of  self-respect 
cut  away  just  when  we  are  suffei'ing  a  martyr's  agony  at  the 
stake.  There  was  a  five  minutes'  tragic  colloqiiy  in  tlie 
recesses  behind  tlie  scenes, — totally  tragic  to  Diajaer,  who 
liad  fondly  hoped  to  bask  in  the  warm  sun  of  that  annuity, 
and  re-emerge  from  his  state  of  grub.  The  lady  then  wrote 
the  letter  Sir  Austin  held  open  to  his  sister.  The  atmo- 
sphere behind  the  scenes  is  not  wholesome,  so,  having  laid  the 
Ghost,  we  will  return  and  face  tljc  curtain. 

That  infinitesimal  dose  of  The  World  -which  IMastcr 
Kipton  Thompson  had  furnished  to  the  System  with  such 
instantaneous  and  surprising  (effect  wa.s  considered  by  Sir 
Austin  to  have  worked  well,  and  to  be  for  the  time  quite 
BulUcieut,  so  that  Ripton  did  not  receive  a  second  iuvitation 


<4  THE  OnPRAL  OP'  RICnARD  FEVEREr.. 

to  Rnynham,  and  Rifhard  had  no  special  intimate  of  his  own 
aijre  to  rub  liis  excessive  vitality  against,  and  wanted  none. 
His  hands  were  full  enough  with  Tom  Bakewell.  ^Moreover, 
his  father  and  he  were  heart  in  lieart.  The  boy's  mind  was 
opening,  and  turned  to  his  father  affectionately  reverent. 
At  this  period,  when  the  young  savage  grows  into  higher 
influences,  the  faculty  of  worship  is  foremost  in  him.  At 
this  period  Jesuits  stamp  the  future  of  their  cliargeling 
floclvs ;  and  all  who  bring  up  youth  by  a  System,  and  Avatch 
it,  know  that  it  is  the  malleable  moment.  Boys  possessing 
any  mental  or  moral  force  to  give  them  a  tendency,  then 
predestinate  their  careers  ;  or,  if  under  supervision,  take  the 
impress  that  is  given  them:  not  often  to  cast  it  off,  and 
seldom  to  cast  it  oif  altogether. 

In  Sir  Austin's  Note-book  was  written:  "  Between  Simple 
Boyhood  and  Adolescence — The  Blossoming  Season — on  the 
tlireshold  of  Puberty,  there  is  one  Unselfish  Hour — say, 
Spiritual  Seed-time." 

He  took  care  that  good  seed  should  be  planted  in  Richai'd, 
and  that  the  most  fruitful  seed  for  a  youtli,  namely,  E.vample, 
should  be  of  a  kind  to  germinate  in  him  the  love  of  every 
form  of  nobleness. 

"  I  am  only  sti-iving  to  make  my  son  a  Christian,"  he  said, 
answering  them  who  persisted  in  expostulanng  with  the 
System.  And  to  these  instructions  he  gave  an  aim  :  "  First 
be  virtuous,"  he  told  his  son,  "  and  then  serve  your  country 
with  heart  and  soul."  The  youth  was  instructed  to  cherish 
an  ambition  for  statesrnanship,  and  he  and  his  father  read 
history  and  the  speeches  of  British  orators  to  some  purpose; 
for  one  day  Sir  Austin  found  him  leaning  cross-legged,  and 
with  his  hand  to  his  chin,  against  a  pedestal  supporting  the 
bust  of  Chatham,  contemplating  the  hero  of  our  Parliament, 
his  eyes  streaming  with  tears. 

People  said  the  baronet  carried  the  pHnciple  of  Example 
so  far  that  he  only  retained  his  boozing  dyspeptic  brother 
Hippias  at  Raynham  in  order  to  exhibit  to  his  son  the  woful 
retribution  nature  wi-eaked  upon  a  life  of  indulgence;  poor 
Hippias  having  now  become  a  walking  complaint.  This  was 
unjust,  but  there  is  no  doubt  he  made  use  of  every  illustra- 
tion to  disgust  or  encourage  his  son  that  his  neighbourhood 
afforded  him,  and  did  not  spare  his  brother,  for  whom  Richard 
e'jtertained  a  contempt  in  proportion  to  his  admiration  of 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON.  75 

his  father,  and  was  for  flying  into  penitential  extremes  which 
Sir  Austin  had  to  soften. 

The  boy  prayed  with  his  father  morning  and  night. 

"  How  is  it,  sir,"  he  said  one  night,  "  I  can't  get  Tom 
Bake  well  to  pray  ?" 

"  Does  he  refuse  ?"  Sir  Austin  asked. 

"  He  seems  to  be  ashamed  to,"  Richard  replied.  "  He 
wants  to  know  what  is  the  good  ?  and  I  don't  know  what 
to  tell  him." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  has  gone  too  far  with  him,"  said  Sir  Austin, 
"and  until  he  has  had  some  deep  sorrows  he  will  not  find 
the  divine  want  of  Prayer.  Strive,  my  son,  when  you  repre- 
sent the  people,  to  provide  for  their  education.  He  feels 
everything  now  through  a  dull  impenetrable  rind.  Culture 
is  half-way  to  Heaven.  Tell  him,  my  son,  should  he  ever  be 
brought  to  ask  how  he  may  know  the  efficacy  of  Prayer,  and 
that  his  prayer  will  be  answered,  tell  him  (he  quoted  The 
Pilgrim's  Scrip)  : 

" '  Who  rises  from  Prayer  a  better  man,  his  prayer  is 
answered.'  " 

"  I  will,  sir,"  said  Richard,  and  went  to  sleep  happy. 

Happy  in  his  father  and  in  himself,  the  youth  now  lived. 
Conscience  was  beginning  to  inhabit  him,  and  he  carried 
some  of  the  freightage  known  to  men ;  though  in  so  crude  a 
form  that  it  overweighed  him,  now  on  this  side,  now  oa 
tl.nt. 

The  wise  youth  Adrian  observed  these  further  progros- 
sionary  developments  in  his  pupil,  soberly  cynical.  He  was 
under  Sir  Austin's  intei'dict  not  to  banter  him,  and  eased  his 
acrid  humours  inspired  by  the  sight  of  a  felonious  young 
lick-burncr  turning  saint,  by  grave  affectations  of  sympathy 
and  cxtfcme  accuracy  in  marking  the  not  widely-distant 
dates  of  his  various  changes.  The  Brcad-and- water  phase 
lasted  a  fortnight:  the  Vegetarian  (an  imitation  of  his 
cousin  Austin),  little  better  than  a  month:  the  religious, 
somewhat  longer :  the  i-eligious-propagandist  (when  he  was 
for  converting  the  heathen  of  Lobom-ne  and  Bui'sloy,  and 
the  domestics  of  the  Abbey,  including  Tom  Bakowell), 
longer  still,  and  hard  to  bear; — he  tried  to  convert  Adrian  ! 
All  the  while  Tom  was  benng  exercised  like  a  raw  recruit. 
Richard  had  a  drill-sergeant  from  the  nearest  barracks 
down  f(jf  him,  to  give  him  a  proper  pride  in  himself,    and 


76  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICIIARD  FEVEREL. 

marcliod  him  to  and  fro  with  iniinonse  satisfaction,  ancl 
nearly  broko  liis  hcai't  tr^-iiig  to  <^et  the  round-shouldcrtd 
rustic  to  take  in  the  rndinients  of  letters:  for  the  boy  had 
unbounded  hopes  for  Tom,  as  a  hero  in  grain. 

Riehard's  pride  also  was  cast  aside.  Ho  affected  to  be, 
and  really  thought  ho  was,  humble.  Whereupon  Adrian,  as 
by  accident,  imparted  to  him  the  fact  that  men  were 
animals,  and  he  an  aiiimal  with  them. 

"/an  animal !  "  cries  Richard  in  scorn,  and  for  weeks  he 
was  as  troubled  by  this  rudiment  of  self-knowledge  as  Tom 
by  his  letters.  Sir  Austin  had  him  instructed  in  the  won- 
ders of  anatomy,  to  restore  his  self-respect. 

Sekd-time  passed  thus  smoothly,  and  adolescence  came  on, 
and  his  cousin  Clare  felt  what  it  was  to  be  of  an  opposite 
Bex  to  him.  She  too  was  growing,  but  nobody  cared  how 
she  grew.  Outwardly  even  her  mother  seemed  absorbed  in 
the  sprouting  of  the  green  off-shoot  of  the  Feverel  tree,  and 
Clare  was  his  handmaiden,  little  marked  by  him. 

Lady  ]]landish  honestly  loved  the  boy.  She  would  tell 
liim  :  "  If  I  had  been  a  girl,  I  would  have  had  you  for  my 
husband."  And  he  with  the  frankness  of  his  years  would 
reply :  "  And  how  do  you  know  I  would  have  had  you  ?  " 
causing  her  to  laugh  and  call  him  a  silly  boy,  for  had  he  not 
l)eai-d  her  say  she  would  have  had  him  ?  Terrible  words,  he 
knew  not  then  the  meaning  of ! 

"  You  don't  read  your  father's  Book,"  she  said.  Her  own 
copy  was  bound  in  purple  velvet,  gilt-edged,  as  deco]-ative 
ladies  like  to  haA^e  holier  books,  and  she  carried  it  about 
with  her,  and  quoted  it,  and  (Adrian  remarked  to  J\lrs. 
Doria)  hunted  a  iioble  quarry,  and  deliberately  aimed  at  him 
therewiih,  which  Mrs.  Doria  chose  to  believe,  and  regretted 
her  brotlier  would  not  be  on  his  guard. 

"  See  here,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  pressing  an  almondy 
finger-nail  to  one  of  the  A^^horisms,  which  instanced  how 
age  and  adversity  must  clay-enclose  us  ere  we  can  effectually 
resist  the  magnetism  of  any  human  creature  in  our  path. 
"  Can  you  understand  it,  child  ?  " 

Richard  informed  her  that  when  she  read  he  could. 

"  Well,  then,  my  squire,"  she  touched  his  cheek  and  ran 
her  fingers  through  his  hair,  "  learn  as  quick  as  you  can  not 
to  be  all  hither  and  yon  with  a  hundred  different  attractions, 
as  I  was  before  I  met  a  wise  man  to  jruide  me." 


THE  BLOSSOMING  SEASON.  77 

•*Is  my  father  very  •wise  ?  "  Richard  asked. 

"I  think  so,"  the  hidy  emphasized  her  individual  judg- 
ment. 

"  Do  you "  Richard  broke  forth,  and  was  stopped  by  a 

beating  of  his  heart. 

"  Do  I — what  ?  "  she  calmly  queried. 

"I  was  going  to  say,  do  you — I  mean,  I  love  him  so 
much." 

Lady  Blandish  smiled  and  slightly  coloured. 

They  frequently  approached  this  theme,  and  always 
retreated  from  it;  always  with  the  same  beating  of  heart  to 
Richard,  accompanied  by  the  sense  of  a  growing  mystery, 
which,  however,  did  not  as  yet  generally  disturb  him. 

Life  was  made  very  pleasant  to  him  at  Raynham,  as  it 
was  part  of  Sir  Austin's  principle  of  education  that  his  boy 
should  be  thoroughly  joyous  and  happy ;  and  whenever 
Adrian  sent  in  a  satisfactory  report  of  his  pupil's  advance- 
ment,  which  he  did  pretty  liberally,  diversions  were  planned, 
just  as  prizes  are  given  to  diligent  school-boys,  and  Richard 
was  supposed  to  have  all  his  desires  gratified  while  he 
attended  to  his  studies.  The  System  flourished.  Tall, 
strong,  bloomingly  healthy,  he  took  the  lead  of  his  com- 
panions on  land  and  water,  and  had  more  than  one  bonds- 
man in  his  service  besides  Ripton  Thompson — the  boy  with- 
out a  Destiny  !  Perhaps  the  boy  with  a  Destiny  was  grow- 
ing up  a  trifle  too  conscious  of  it.  His  generosity  to  his 
occasional  companions  was  princely,  but  was  exercised  some- 
thing too  much  in  the  manner  of  a  prince;  and,  notwith- 
standing his  contempt  for  baseness,  he  would  overlook  that 
more  easily  than  an  offence  to  his  pride,  which  demanded  au 
utter  servility  when  it  had  once  been  rcndei-ed  susceptible. 
If  Richard  had  his  followers  he  had  also  his  feuds.  The 
Papworths  were  as  subservient  as  Ripton,  but  young  Ralph 
JMorton,  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Morton,  and  a  match  for  Ricliai-d 
in  numerous  promising  qualities,  comprising  the  noble 
science  of  fisticuffs,  this  youth  spoke  his  mind  too  openly, 
and  moreover  would  not  be  snubbed.  There  w;is  no  midtllo 
course  for  Richard's  comrades  between  high  friendship  or 
absolute  slavei-y.  He  was  deficient  in  those  cosmopolite 
habits  and  feelings  which  enable  boys  and  men  to  hold 
together  without  caring  much  for  each  other;  and,  liko 
every  insulated  mortal,  he  uti-ribulcd  the  deficiency,  of  which 


8  TnE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVERFT^ 

he  was  quite  aware,  to  the  fact  of  his  possessing  a  superior 
nature.  Youug  lialph  was  a  lively  talker:  theiefore,  argued 
Kiehard's  vanity,  he  had  no  intellect.  He  was  aH'able : 
therefore  he  was  frivolous.  The  women  liked  him  :  there- 
fore he  was  a  butterfly.  In  fine,  young  Ralph  was  popular, 
and  our  superb  prince,  denied  the  privilege  of  despising, 
ended  by  detesting  liim. 

Early  in  the  days  of  their  contention  for  leadership, 
Richard  saw  the  absurdity  of  affecting  to  scorn  his  rival. 
Ralph  was  an  Eton  boy,  and  hence,  being  robust,  a  swimmer 
and  a  cricketer.  A  swimmer  and  a  cricketer  is  nowhere  to 
be  scorned  in  youth's  republic.  Finding  that  manceuvre 
would  not  do,  Richard  was  prompted  once  or  twice  to 
entrench  himself  behind  his  greater  wealth  and  his  posi- 
tion ;  but  he  soon  abandoned  that  also,  partly  because  hia 
chilliness  to  ridicule  told  him  he  was  exposing  himself,  and 
chiefly  that  his  heart  Avas  too  chivalrous.  And  so  he  w'as 
dragged  into  the  lists  by  Ralph,  and  experienced  the  luck  of 
champions.  For  cricket,  and  for  diving,  Ralidi  bore  away 
the  belt :  Richai-d's  middle-stump  tottered  befoie  his  ball, 
and  he  could  seldom  pick  up  more  than  three  eggs  under- 
water to  Ralph's  half-dozen.  He  Avas  beaten,  too,  in  jump- 
ing and  running.  Why  will  silly  mortals  strive  to  the 
painful  pinnacles  of  championship  ?  Or  Avhy,  once  having 
reached  them,  not  have  the  magnanimity  and  circumspection 
to  retire  into  private  life  immediately  ?  Stung  by  his 
defeats,  Richai-d  sent  one  of  his  dependent  Papworths  to 
Poer  Hall,  with  a  challenge  to  Ralph  Barthrop  ]\Iorton ; 
matching  himself  to  swim  across  the  Thames  and  back,  oner, 
twice,  or  thrice,  w'ithin  a  less  time  than  he,  Ralph  Barthrop 
Morton,  would  require  for  the  undertaking.  It  was  accepted, 
and  a  reply  returned,  equally  formal  in  the  trumpeting  o:. 
Christian  names,  wheiein  Ralph  Barthrop  Morton  acknow. 
ledged  the  challenge  of  Richard  Doria  Feverel,  and  was  his 
man.  The  match  came  off  on  a  midsummer  morning,  under 
the  direction  of  Captain  Algei-non.  Sir  Austin  was  a 
spectator  from  the  cover  of  a  plantation  by  the  river-side, 
unknown  to  his  son,  and,  to  the  scandal  of  her  sex.  Lady 
Blandish  accompanied  the  baronet.  He  had  invited  her 
attendance,  and  she,  obeying  her  frank  nature,  and  knowing 
what  The  Pilgrim  Sckii'  said  about  prudes,  at  once  agreed 
to   view   the  match,   pleasing  him  mightily.     For  was  ±..01 


THE  BLOSSO:\IING  SEASON.  7^ 

here  a  Avoman  -worthy  the  golden  ages  of  the  "world  ?  ore 
-who  could  look  upon  man  as  a  creature  divinely  made,  and 
look  -with  a  mind  neither  tempted,  nor  taunted,  by  the 
Serpent !  Such  a  woman  was  rare.  Sir  Austin  did  not 
disL'ompose  her  by  uttering  his  praises.  She  was  conscious 
of  his  approval  only  in  an  increased  gentleness  of  manner, 
and  something  in  his  voice  and  communications,  as  if  he 
were  s[)caking  to  a  familiar,  a  very  high  compliment  from 
him.  While  the  lads  were  standing  ready  for  the  signal  to 
plunge  from  the  steep  decline  of  greensward  into  the  shining 
waters,  Sir  Austin  called  upon  her  to  admire  their  beauty, 
and  she  did,  and  even  advanced  her  head  above  his  shoulder 
delicately.  In  so  doing,  and  just  as  the  start  was  given,  a 
bonnet  became  visible  to  Richard.  Young  Ralph  was  heels 
in  air  before  he  moved,  and  then  he  dropped  like  lead.  He 
was  beaten  by  several  lengths. 

The  result  of  the  match  was  unaccountable  to  all  present, 
and  Richard's  friends  unanimously  pi^essed  him  to  plead  a 
false  start.  But  though  the  youth,  with  full  confidence  in 
his  better  style  and  equal  strength,  had  backed  himself 
heavily  against  his  rival,  and  had  lost  his  little  river-yacht 
to  Ralph,  he  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  It  was  the 
J3onnet  had  beaten  him,  not  Ralph.  The  Bonnet,  typical  of 
the  mystery  that  caused  his  hear-t  those  violent  jialpitations, 
the  Bonnet  was  his  dear,  detestable  enemy.  He  took  a 
savage  pleasure  in  attributing  his  evil  luck  to  the  Bonnet. 
It  distilled  an  exquisite  bitter-sweet. 

And  now,  as  he  progressed  from  mood  to  mood,  his  ambition 
turned  towards  a  field  where  Ralph  could  not  rival  him, 
and  where  the  Bonnet  was  etherealized,  and  reigned  glorious 
mistress.  A  check  to  the  pride  of  a  boy  will  fi-equently 
divert  him  to  the  jiath  where  lie  his  subtlest  powers.  Richfird 
gave  up  his  companions,  sci-vile  or  antagonistic :  he  relin- 
(|uishcd  the  material  world  to  young  Ral])h,  and  retired  into 
himself,  where  he  was  growing  to  be  lord  of  kingdoms: 
wliero  Beauty  was  his  handmaid,  and  Ilistoiy  his  minister, 
and  Time  his  ancient  hai'pei",  and  sweet  Romance  his  bride  ; 
where  he  walked  in  a  realm  vaster  and  more  gorgeous  than 
the  great  Orient,  peopled  with  the  heroes  that  have  been. 
For  thei-e  is  no  pri»icely  wealtli,  and  no  loftiest  heritage,  to 
equal  this  early  one  that  is  made  bountifully  common  (o  so 
many,   when   the   ripening  blood    has   put  a    spark    to   the 


80  ttit:  nnnEAL  of  iMrn.\nr)  FEvrnEL. 

imapfinaiion,  find  ih^j  earth  is  seen  lli»()iin;h  rosy  m'sls  of  a 
thousand  fivsh -awakened  ]ianieless  anil  aimless  desii-es; 
panting-  for  bliss  and  taking  it  as  it  comes;  making  of  any 
sight  or  sound,  perfoice  of  the  enchantment  the}'  cai-ry  with 
them,  a  key  to  infinite,  because  innocent,  pleasuie.  'J'lie 
passions  tlien  are  gambolling  cubs ;  not  the  ravaging  gluttons 
they  grow  to.  They  have  their  teeth  and  their  talons,  but 
they  neither  tear  nor  bite.  They  are  in  counsel  and  fellow- 
ship with  the  quickened  heart  and  brain.  The  whole  swee*' 
system  moves  to  music. 

Something  akin  to  the  indications  of  a  change  in  the  spirit 
of  liis  son,  which  were  now  seen.  Sir  Austin  had  marked 
down  to  be  expected,  as  due  to  his  plan.  The  blushes  of  the 
youth,  his  long  vigiks,  his  clinging  to  solitude,  his  abstraction, 
and  downcast  but  not  melancholy  air,  were  matters  for 
rejoicing  to  the  prescient  gentleman.  "  For  it  comes,"  said 
he  to  Dr.  Clifford  of  Lobourne,  after  consulting  him  medically 
on  the  youtli's  behalf  and  being  assured  of  his  soundness,  "it, 
comes  of  a  thoroughly  sane  condition.  The  blood  is  healthy, 
the  mind  virtuous  :  neither  instigates  the  other  to  evil,  and 
both  are  pei'fecting  towai-d  the  fiovver  of  manhood.  If  he 
reach  that  pure — in  the  untainted  fulness  and  perfection  of 
his  natural  powers — 1  am  indeed  a  happy  father  !  But  one 
thing  he  will  owe  to  me:  that  at  one  period  of  his  life  he 
knew  paradise,  and  could  read  God's  handwriting  on  the 
earth  !  Now  those  abominations  whom  you  call  precocious 
boys — your  little  pet  monsters,  doctor  !  -  and  wliocan  wonder 
that  the  world  is  what  it  is  ?  when  it  is  full  of  them — as  tliey 
will  have  no  divine  time  to  look  back  upon  in  their  own  lives, 
how  can  they  believe  in  innocence  and  goodness,  or  be  other 
than  sons  of  selHshness  and  the  Devil  ?  But  my  boy,"  and 
the  baronet  dropped  his  voice  to  a  key  that  was  touching  to 
hear,  "  my  boy,  if  he  fall,  will  fall  from  an  actual  region  of 
purity.  He  dare  not  be  a  sceptic  as  to  that.  Whatever  his 
darkness,  he  will  have  the  guiding  liglit  of  a  memory  behind 
him.     So  much  is  secure." 

To  talk  nonsense,  or  poetry,  or  the  dash  between  the  two, 
in  a  tone  of  profound  sincerity,  and  to  enunciate  solemn 
discordances  with  received  opinion  so  seriously  as  to  convey 
the  impression  of  a  spiritual  insight,  is  the  peculiar  gift  by 
which  monomaniacs,  liaving  first  persuaded  themselves,  con- 
tiive   to  influence  their  neighbours,   and    througli   thcna  to 


THE  BLOSSOMING  REASON.  81 

make  conquest  of  a  good  half  of  the  world,  for  good  or  for  ill. 
Sir  Austin  had  this  gift.  He  spoke  as  if  he  saw  the  truth, 
and,  persisting  in  it  so  long,  he  was  accredited  by  those  who 
did  not  understand  him,  and  silenced  them  that  did.  "  We 
shall  see,"  was  all  the  argument  left  to  Dr.  Clifl'ord,  and  other 
unbelievers. 

So  far  certainly  the  expei'iment  had  succeeded.  A  comlier, 
braver,  better  boy  was  nowhere  to  be  met.  His  promise  was 
undeniable.  The  vessel,  too,  though  it  lay  now  in  harbour 
and  had  not  yet  been  pi-oved  by  the  buffets  of  the  elements 
on  the  great  ocean,  had  made  a  good  trial  trip,  and  got  well 
through  stormy  weather,  as  the  records  of  the  Bake  well 
Comedy  witnessed  to  at  Rayuham.  No  augury  could  bo 
hopefuler.  The  Fates  must  indeed  be  hard,  the  Ordeal 
severe,  the  Destiny  dark,  that  could  destroy  so  bright  a 
Spring!  But,  bright  as  it  was,  the  baronet  relaxed  notliing 
of  his  vigilant  supervision.  He  said  to  his  intimates : 
"  Every  act,  every  fostered  incliration,  almost  every  thought, 
in  this  Blossoming  Season,  bei\,rs  its  seed  for  the  Future. 
The  living  Tree  now  i-equircs  incessant  watchfulness."  And, 
acting  up  to  his  light,  Sir  Austin  did  watch.  The  youth 
submitted  to  an  hour's  examination  eveiy  night  before 
he  sought  his  bed ;  professedly  to  give  an  account  of  his 
studies;  but  really  to  rccapif alate  his  moral  experiences  of 
the  day.  He  could  do  so,  for  he  was  pure.  Any  wildness  in 
him  that  his  father  noted,  any  remoteness  or  richness  of 
fancy  in  his  expressions,  was  set  down  as  incidental  to  the 
Blossoming  Season.  The  Blossoming  Season  explained  and 
answered  for  all.  There  is  nothing  like  a  theory  foi-  binding 
the  wise.  Sir  Austin,  despite  his  rigid  watch  and  ward, 
knew  less  of  his  son  than  the  servant  of  his  household.  And 
he  was  deaf,  as  well  as  blind.  Adrian  tliought  it  his  duty  to 
tell  him  that  the  youth  was  consuming  paper.  Lady 
Blandish  likewise  hinted  at  his  mooning  propensities.  Sir 
Austin  from  his  lofty  watch-tower  of  the  System  had  forc- 
Bcen  it,  he  said.  But  when  he  came  to  hear  that  the  yo"^^ 
was  writing  poetry,  his  wounded  heart  had  its  reasons  for 
being  much  disturbed. 

"  Surely,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  "  you  knew  he  scribbled  ?  " 
"  A    very    difterent  thing  from  writing  poetry,   madara," 
Raid  the  baronet.     "No  Feverel  has  ever  Avritten  poetry/ 

a 


^2  THE  nr>ni',.\T.  of  RidlARO  FF.VKKEL. 

"I  don't  tliink  it's  a  sij^n  of  dcocnoiacv-"  the  lady 
remarked.     "  lie  rhymes  very  prettily  to  me." 

A  iiondon  p}n-ciu)lofi;ist,  and  a  friendly  Oxfoj-l  Professor 
of  poetry,  quieted  Sir  Austin's  fears. 

The  phrenolog^ist  said  he  was  totally  deficient  in  the  imita- 
tive faculty  ;  and  the  Professor,  that  he  was  equally  so  in  the 
rhythmic,  and  instanced  several  consoling  false  quantities  in 
the  few  eiTusions  submitted  to  him.  Added  to  this,  Sir 
Austin  told  Lady  Blandish  that  Richaru  had,  at  his  best, 
done  what  no  poet  had  ever  been  known  to  be  capable  of 
doing  :  he  had,  with  his  own  hands,  and  in  cold  blood,  com- 
mitted his  virgin  manuscript  to  the  flames  :  which  made 
Lady  Blandish  sigh  forth,  "  Poor  boy  !  " 

Killing  one's  darling  child  is  a  painful  imposition.  For  a 
youth  in  his  Blossoming  Season,  who  fancies  himself  a  poet, 
to  be  requested  to  destroy  his  first-born,  without  a  reason 
(though  to  pretend  a  reason  cogent  enough  to  justify  the 
request  were  a  mockery),  is  a  piece  of  abhorrent  despotism, 
and  Richard's  blossoms  withered  under  it.  A  strange  man 
had  been  introduced  to  him,  who  traversed  and  bisected  his 
ekull  with  sagacious  stiff  fingers,  and  crushed  his  soul  while, 
m  an  infallible  voice,  declaiing  him  the  animal  he  was: 
making  him  feel  such  an  animal !  Not  only  his  blossoms 
■withered,  his  being  seemed  to  draw  in  its  shoots  and  twigs. 
And  when,  coupled  thereunto  (the  strange  man  having 
departed,  his  work  done),  his  father,  in  his  tenderest  man- 
ner, stated  that  it  would  give  him  pleasure  to  see  those 
Eame  precocious,  utterly  valueless,  scribblings  among  the 
cinders,  the  last  remaining  mental  blossoms  spontaneously 
fell  away.  Richard's  spirit  stood  bare.  He  protested  not, 
I']nough  that  it  could  be  wished  !  He  would  not  delay  a 
minute  in  doing  it.  Desiring  his  father  to  follow  him,  he 
went  to  a  drawer  in  his  loom,  and  from  a  clean-linen  recess, 
never  suspected  by  Sir  Austin,  the  secretive  youth  drew  out 
bundle  after  bundle :  each  neatly  tied,  named,  and  num- 
bered :  and  pitched  them  into  flames.  And  so  Farewell  my 
young  Ambition  !  and  with  it  Farewell  all  true  confidence 
between  Father  and  Son. 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE.  83 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   MAGNETIC   AGE. 

It  was  now,  as  Sir  Austin  had  written  it  down,  The  Mag- 
netic Age:  the  Age  of  violent  attractions,  when  to  hear 
nietition  of  love  is  dangerous,  and  to  see  it,  a  communication 
(ji  the  disease.  People  at  Raynham  were  put  on  their  guard 
by  the  bai'onet,  and  his  reputation  for  wis'l^vm.  was  severely 
criticized  in  consequence  of  the  injunctions  liC  thought  fit  to 
issue  through  butler  and  housekeeper  down  to  the  lower 
hoi  sehold,  for  the  pi'eservation  of  his  son  from  any  visible 
symptom  of  the  passion.  A  footman  and  two  housemaids  ai'e 
believed  to  have  been  dismissed  on  the  report  of  heavy 
Benson  that  they  were  in  or  inclining  to  the  state  ;  upon 
which  an  undercook  and  a  dairymaid  voluntarily  threw  up 
their  places,  averring  that  "  they  did  not  want  no  young 
men,  but  to  have  their  sex  spied  after  by  an  old  wretch  like 
that,"  indicating  the  ponderous  butler,  "  was  a  little  too 
much  for  a  Christian  woman,"  and  then  they  were  ungene- 
rous enough  to  glance  at  Benson's  well-known  marital 
calamity,  hinting  that  some  naen  net  their  deserts.  So 
intolerable  did  heavy  Benson's  espionage  become,  that  Rayn- 
ham would  have  gro^vn  depopulated  of  its  womankind  had 
not  Adrian  interfered,  who  pointed  out  to  the  baronet  what 
a  fearful  arm  his  butler  was  wielding.  Sir  Austin  acknow- 
lodged  it  despondently.  "  It  only  shows,"  said  he,  with  a 
fine  spirit  of  justice,  "  how  all  but  impossible  it  is  to  legislate 
where  there  are  women  !" 

"I  do  not  object,"  he  added;  "  I  hope  I  am  too  just  to 
object  to  the  exercise  of  their  natural  inclinations.  All  I 
ask  from  them  is  discreetness." 

"  Ay,"  said  Adrian,  whose  discreetness  was  a  marvel. 

"  No  gadding  about  in  couples,"  continued  the  bin'onefe, 
"no  kissing  in  public.  Such  occurrences  no  boy  should 
witness.  Whenever  people  of  both  sexes  are  thrown  togethei-, 
they  will  be  silly  ;  and  where  they  are  high-fed,  uneducated, 
and  barely  occupied,  it  must  be  looked  for  as  a  matter  oi 
course.     Let  it  be  known  that  I  only' require  discreetness." 

Discreetness,  therefore,  was  instructed  to  reign  at  the 
Abbey.  Under  Adrian's  able  tuition  the  fairest  of  ita 
lomestics  acquired  that  virtue. 

02 


8t  Tiir,  oiinr.AT,  of  Ricii.\ni>  fhverfl. 

Discrochioss,  loo,  was  enjoined  <o  tlio  nppcr  hoiipoliol^ 
Sir  Austin,  avIio  liad  not  pi-cvionsly  npjicai-cd  lo  notice  the 
case  of  Lobourno's  liopolcss  curate,  now  desired  ]\lrs.  Doria 
lo  intei-dict,  or  at  least  disconrap-e.  liis  visits,  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  man  was  that  of  an  embodied  sij^li  and  groan. 

"  Rerdl}-,  Austin  !"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  astonished  to  find  lier 
brother  more  awake  than  she  had  su2)posed,  "  I  have  never 
allowed  him  to  hope." 

"  Let  him  see  it,  then,"  replied  tlie  baronet ;  "  let  him  see 
it." 

"  The  man  amuses  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "  You  know 
we  have  few  amusements  here,  wo  inferior  creatures.  I  con 
fess  I  should  like  a  barrel-organ  better ;  that  reminds  one  ot 
town  and  the  opera  ;  and  besides,  it  plays  more  than  one 
tunc.  However,  since  jou  think  my  society  bad  for  him, 
let  liim  stop  away." 

The  sight  of  the  Note-book  backing  a  sardonic  smile, 
caused  Mrs.  Doria  her  unusual  flash  of  ii-ony  ;  and  truly  it 
was  hard  upon  a  lady  to  mark  this  cold  Rhadamanthus 
deliberately  and  openly  jotting  her  down  to  firejudgement 
and  condemnation  at  her  sex  in  some  future  edition  of  tlie 
Verdicts.  With  the  self-devotion  of  a  woman  she  abjured 
/+^  and  grew  patient  and  sweet  the  moment  her  daughter 
iJlare  was  spoken  of,  and  the  business  of  her  life  in  view. 
!Mi-s.  Doria's  maternal  heart  had  betrothed  tlie  two  cousins, 
Kicliai-d  and  Clare;  had  alreadv  beheld  them  espoused  and 
fruitful.  For  this  she  yielded  the  pleasures  of  town;  for 
this  she  immured  herself  at  Raynham ;  for  this  she  boi'e 
with  a  thousand  follies,  exactions,  inconveniences,  thing.s 
abhorrent  to  her,  and  Heaven  knows  what  forms  of  torture 
and  self-denial,  which  are  smilingly  endured  by  that  greatest 
of  voluntary  martyrs — a  mother  with  a  daughter  to  marry. 
^Irs.  Doria,  an  amiable  widow,  had  surely  married  but  for 
her  f''aughter  Clare.  The  lady's  hair  no  woman  could  possess 
without  feeling  it  her  pride.  It  was  the  daily  theme  of  her 
lady's-maid, — a  natural  aureole  to  her  head.  She  was  gay, 
witty,  still  physically  youthful  enough  to  claim  a  destiny ; 
and  she  sacrificed  it  to  accomplish  her  daughter's  !  sacrificed, 
as  with  heroic  scissoi-s,_hair,  wit.  gaiety — let  us  not  attempt 
to  enumerate  how  much  !  more  than  may  be  said.  And  she 
was  only  one  of  thousands  ;  thousands  who  have  no  portion 
of  the   hero's  reward;  f''?  he  may  reckon  on  applause,  and 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE.  85 

cnnrlolence,  and  sympathy,  and  honour ;  thej,  poor  slaves ! 
must  look  for  nothing-  but  the  opposition  of  their  own  sex 
and  the  sneers  of  ours.  O.  Sir  Austin  !  had  you  not  been 
so  blinded,  what  an  Aphor.srti  might  have  sprung-  from  this 
point  of  observation  !  Mrs.  Doria  was  coolly  told,  between 
sister  and  brother,  that  dui-ing  the  Mag-netic  Age  her 
daughter's  presence  at  Raynham  was  undesireable.  Instead 
of  nursing  offence,  her  sole  thought  was  the  mountain  of 
prejudice  she  had  to  contend  against.  She  bowed,  and  said, 
Clare  wanted  sea-air — she  had  never  quite  recovered  the 
;hock  of  that  dreadful  night.  How  long,  Mrs.  Doria  wished 
ro  know,  might  the  Peculiar  Period  be  expected  to  last  ? 

"  That,"  said  Sir  Austin,  "  depends.  A  year,  perhaps. 
He  is  entering  on  it.  I  shall  be  most  grieved  to  lose  you, 
Helen.     Clare  is  now — how  old  ?  " 

"  Seventeen." 

*'  She  is  marriageable." 

"  Mai-riageable,  Austin  !  at  seventeen  !  don't  name  such  a 
thing.     My  child  shall  not  be  robbed  of  her  youth." 

"  Our  women  many  early,  Helen." 

"My  child  shall  not!  " 

The  baronet  i-eflected  a  moment.  He  did  not  wish  to  lose 
his  sister. 

"  As  you  are  of  that  opinion,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  perhaps 
we  may  still  make  arrangements  to  retain  you  with 
us.  Would  you  think  it  adviseable  to  send  Clare— she 
should  know  discipline — to  some  establishment  for  a  few 
months  ?  "  .  .  . 

"  To  an  asylum,  Austin  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Doria,  controlling 
her  indignation  as  well  as  she  could. 

"To  some  select  superior  seminary,  Eslen.  There  are 
such  to  be  found." 

"  Austin  !  "  Mrs.  Doria  exclaimed,  and  had  to  fight  with  a 
moisture  in  her  eyes.  "Unjust!  absurd  !"  she  murmured. 
The  baronet  thought  it  a  natural  proposition  that  Clare 
should  be  a  bride  or  a  sclu)olgii-l. 

"  T  cannot  leave  my  chihl."  Afrs.  Doria  trembkid.  "  WhcKl 
she  goes,  I  go.  I  am  aware  that  she  is  only  one  of  our  sex, 
and  therefore  of  no  value  to  the  world,  but  she  is  my  child. 
I  will  see,  poor  dear,  that  you  have  no  cause  to  complain  ot 
bcr." 

"I  thonght,"  Sir  Austin  remarked,  "that  you  acquiesced 
in  my  views  with  regard  to  my  son." 


«fl  TTir  OTIPFAT,  OF  KTrTTAKD  FEVEREL. 

"  Vcs — poiioj-ally,"  said  Mi-s.  Doj-ia,  and  fcTt  rnlpa1)]o  tliat 
slio  liad  not  betoiv,  and  could  not  then,  tell  lior  brother  that 
he  liad  set  uj)  an  Idol  in  his  house — an  Idol  of  flesh  !  more 
rctiibutive  and  aboiuinable  than  wood,  or  brass,  or  gold. 
But  she  had  bowed  to  the  Idol  too  long — she  had  too 
entirely  bound  herself  to  gain  her  project  by  subserv'iency 
to  enjoy  that  gratification  now.  She  had,  and  she  dimly 
■pirceived  it,  committed  a  greater  fault  in  tactics,  in  teach- 
hijc  her  daughter  to  bow  to  the  Idol  also.  Love  of  that  kind 
liichard  took  for  tribute.  He  was  indifferent  to  Clai-e's  soft 
eyes.  The  parting  kiss  he  gave  her  was  ready  and  cold  as 
his  father  could  desire,  and  Sir  Austin  had  haixlly  slept 
overnight  for  thinking  of  the  effect  it  might  have  on  the 
magnetic  youth.  lie  caressed  his  son  as  if  Richard  had 
done  something  virtuous.  Compensation  his  boy  should 
have  for  any  trifling  crosses  to  his  feelings.  He  should 
have  yachts,  horses,  whatever  he  fancied.  Sir  Austin  now 
grew  eloquent  to  him  in  laudation  of  manly  pursuits :  but 
Richard  thought  his  eloquence  barren,  his  attempts  at  com- 
panionship  awkward,  and  all  manly  pursuits  and  aims,  life 
itself,  vain  and  worthless.  To  what  end  ?  sighed  the  blos- 
somless  youth,  and  cried  aloud,  as  soon  as  he  was  relieved 
of  his  father's  society,  what  was  the  good  of  anything  ? 
Wliatever  he  did — whichever  path  he  selected,  led  back  to 
Raynham.  And  whatever  he  did,  and  however  wretched 
and  wayward  he  showed  himself,  only  confinncd  Sir  Austin 
more  and  more  in  the  truth  of  his  previsions.  Tom  Bake- 
well,  now  the  youth's  groom,  had  to  give  the  baronet  a 
report  of  his  young  master's  proceedings,  in  common  with 
Adrian,  and  while  there  was  no  harm  to  toll  Tom  spoke  out. 
"  He  do  ride  like  fire  every  day  to  Pig's  Snout,"  naming  the 
highest  hill  in  the  neighbourhood,  "  and  stand  there  and 
stare,  never  movin',  like  a  mad  'un.  And  then  hoam  agin 
all  slack  as  if  he'd  been  beaten  in  a  race  by  somebody." 

To  the  interrogation — Did  he  look  East  or  West?  Totu, 
dreading  a  snare,  replied  that  he  had  not  mai'ked:  "lie 
Boemed  for  to  look  where  he  could  look  fur  away." 

"  There  is  no  woman  in  that !  "  mused  the  baronet.  "  He 
•would  have  ridden  back  as  hard  as  he  went,"  reflected  this 
profound  scientific  humanist,  "had  there  been  a  woman  in 
\t.  He  would  shun  vast  expanses,  and  seek  shade,  conceal- 
neut,  solitude.     The  desire  for  distances  betokens  emptiucsa 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE. 


87 


and  undirected  hunger :  when  the  heai-t  is  possessed  by  an 
image  we  flj  to  wood  and  forest,  like  the  guilty." 

Adrian's  report  accused  his  pupil  of  au  extraordinary 
access  of  cynicism. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  baronet.  "  As  I  foresaw.  At  this 
pej'iod  an  insatiate  appetite  is  accompanied  by  a  fastidious 
palate.  Nothing  but  the  quintessences  of  existence,  and 
those  in  exhaustrless  supplies,  will  satisfy  this  craving,  whicb 
is  not  to  be  satisfied  !  Hence  his  bitLerness.  Life  can 
furnish  no  food  fitting  for  him.  The  strength  and  purity  ol 
his  energies  have  reached  to  an  almost  divine  height,  and 
roam  through  the  Inane.  Poetry,  love,  and  such-like,  are 
the  drugs  earth  has  to  offer  to  high  natures,  as  she  offers  to 
low  ones  debauchery.  'Tis  a  sign,  th's  sourness,  that  he  is 
subject  to  none  of  the  empiricisms  that  are  afloat.  Now  tc 
keep  him  clear  of  them  !  " 

The  Titans  had  an  easier  task  in  storming  Olympus.  As 
^et,  however,  it  could  not  be  said  that  Sir  Austin's  System 
had  failed.  On  the  contrary,  it  had  reared  a  youth,  hand- 
some, intelligent,  well-bred,  and,  observed  the  ladies,  with 
acute  emphasis,  innocent.  Where,  they  asked,  was  such 
another  young  man  to  be  found  ? 

"Oh!"  said  Lady  Blandish  to  Sir  Austin,  "if  men  could 
give  their  hands  to  women  unsoilcd — how  different  would 
many  a  marriage  be  !  She  will  be  a  happy  girl  who  culls 
Richard  husband." 

"Happy,  indeed  !  "  was  the  baronet's  caustic  ejacuhition. 
"But  where  shall  I  meet  one  equal  to  him,  and  his  match  :*" 

"  I  was  innocent  when  I  was  a  girl,"  said  the  lady. 

Sir  Austin  bowed  a  reserved  opinion. 

"  Do  you  think  no  girls  innocent  ?  " 

Sir  Austin  gallantly  thought  them  all  so. 

"  No,  that  you  know  they  are  not,"  said  the  lady,  stamp- 
ing.     "  But  they  arc  more  innocent  than  boys,  I  am  sure." 

"  Becaiise  of  their  education,  madam.  You  see  now  what 
a  youth  can  be.  Perhaps,  when  my  System  is  published,  or 
rather — to  speak  more  humbly— when  it  is  practised,  tlio 
biilance  may  be  restored,  and  wo  shall  have  virtuous  young 
men." 

"  It's  too  late  for  poor  me  to  hope  for  a  husband  from  one 
of  tlieni,"  said  the  lady,  pouting  and  laughing. 

"  It  is  never  too  late  for  beauty  to  wakeu  love,"  returned 


88  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTCTIARD  PKYKREL. 

the  baronet,  and  thcj  tiiilcd  a  little.  They  were  approach, 
inc;'  Dajihne's  Bower,  wliich  they  entered,  and  sat  there  to 
taste  the  coolness  of  a  descending  midsuiuiner  day. 

The  baronet  seemed  in  a  humour  lor  dignified  fooling;  the 
lady  for  serious  converse. 

"  I  shall  believe  again  in  Arthur's  knights,"  she  said. 
"  When  I  was  a  girl  I  dreamed  of  one." 

•'  And  he  was  in  quest  of  the  San  Greal  ?" 

♦'If  you  like." 

"And  showed  his  good  taste  by  turning  aside  for  the  more 
tangible  San  Blandish  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  consider  it  would  have  been  so,"  sighed 
the  lady  ruffling. 

"  I  can  only  judge  by  our  generation,"  Said  Sir  Austin, 
with  a  bend  of  homage. 

The  lady  gathered  her  mouth,  "  Either  we  are  very 
mighty,  or  you  are  very  weak." 

"  Both,  madam." 

"  But  whatever  we  are,  and  if  we  are  bad,  bad  !  we  love 
virtue,  and  truth,  and  lofty  souls,  in  men :  and,  when  we 
meet  those  qualities  in  them,  we  are  constant,  and  would 
die  for  them — die  for  them.  Ah  !  you  know  men  but  not 
women." 

"  The  kniehts  possessing  such  distinctions  must  be 
youne,  I  presume  ?  "  said  Sir  Austin. 

"  Old,  or  young  !  " 

"  But  if  old,  they  are  scarce  capable  of  enterprise  ?  '* 

•'  They  are  loved  for  themselves,  not  for  their  deeds." 

*«  Ah !  " 

"  Yes — ah  !  "  said  the  lady  mocking  him.  "  Intellect  may 
subdue  women — make  slaves  of  them;  and  they  worship 
beauty  perhaps  as  much  as  you  do.  But  they  only  love  for 
ever  and  are  mated  when  they  meet  a  noble  nature." 

Sir  Austin  looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"  And  did  you  encounter  the  knight  of  your  dream  ?  " 

"  Not  then."  She  lowered  her  eyelids.  It  was  prettily 
done. 

"  And  how  did  yon  bear  the  disappointment  ?  " 

"  My  dream  was  in  the  nursery.  The  day  my  frock  was 
lengthened  to  a  gown  I  stood  at  the  altar.  I  am  not  the 
only  girl  that  has  been  made  a  woman  in  a  day,  and  given 
to  an  ogre  instead  of  a  true  knight." 


THE  MAGNETIC  AGE.  89 

**  Good  God  ! "  exclaimed  Sir  Austin,  "  women  have  much 
to  bear." 

Here  the  couple  changed  characters.     The  lady  became 

gay  as  the  baronet  grew  earnest. 

"  You  know  it  is  our  lot,"  she  said.  "  And  we  are  allowed 
many  amusements.  If  we  fulfil  our  duty  in  producing  chil- 
dren, that,  like  our  virtue,  is  its  own  reward.  Then,  as  a 
widow,  I  have  wonderful  privileges." 

"  To  preserve  which,  you  remain  a  widow  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  she  responded.  "  I  have  no  trouble  now  in 
patching  and  piecing  that  rag  the  world  calls — a  character. 
I  can  sit  at  your  feet  every  day  unquestioned.  To  be  sure, 
others  do  the  same,  but  they  are  female  eccentrics,  and  have 
cast  off  the  rag  altogether  :  mind  mends  itself." 

Sir  Austin  drew  nearer  to  her.  "  You  would  have  made 
an  admirable  mother,  madam." 

The  lady  smiled.  This  from  Sir  Austin  was  very  like 
positive  wo(jing. 

"  It  is,"  he  continued,  "  ten  thousand  pities  that  you  are 
not  one." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  She  spoke  with  an  extreme  humility. 

"  I  would,"  he  went  on,  "  that  heaven  had  given  you  a 
daughter." 

"  Would  you  have  thought  her  worthy  of  Richard  ?  " 

"  Our  blood,  madam,  should  have  been  one  !  " 

The  lady  tapped  her  toe  with  her  parasol,  blushing.  "  But 
I  am  a  mother,"  she  said. 

Sir  Austin's  brows  started  jp. 

"Richard  is  my  son." 

That  he  could  look  relieved  by  so  presumptuous  a  speech 
was  a  sign  how  far  the  lady  had  gone  with  him. 

"  Yes  !  Richard  is  my  boy,"  she  reiterated. 

Sir  Austin's  most  gj-aciously  appended,  "  Call  liim  ours, 
madam,"  and  held  his  head  as  if  to  catch  the  word  from  her 
lips,  which,  however,  she  chose  to  refuse,  or  defer.  They 
made  the  coloured  West  a  common  point  for  their  eyes  several 
minutes,  and  then  Sir  Austin  said,  "  Listen,  madam." 

Lady  Bhmdish  turned  to  him  very  sweetly, 

"  As  you  will  not  say  '  ours,'  madam,  let  me.  And,  as  you 
have  therefore  an  equal  claim  on  the  boy,  I  will  confide  to 
}ou  a  project  I  have  lately  conceived." 

The  announcement  of  a  project  haidly  savoui'cd of  a  coming 


90  THE  ORDEAL  OF  UICIIAKD  FKVEREL. 

projiosal,  but  for  Sir  Austin  to  coiifule  one  to  a  woman  waa 
almost  tantamount  to  a  declaration.  So  Lady  fJlandisli 
thought,  and  so  said  her  soft,  deep-eyed  smile,  as  she  perused 
tlie  ground  while  listening  to  the  project.  It  concerned 
Richard's  nuptials.  He  was  now  nearly  eighteen.  lie  was 
to  marry  when  he  was  five-and-twenty.  Meantime  a  young 
lady,  some  years  his  junior,  was  to  be  souglit  for  in  the  homes 
of  England,  who  would  be  every  w^ay  fitted  by  education, 
instincts,  and  blood — on  each  of  wliicli  qualifications  Sir 
Austin  iinreservedly  enlarged — to  espouse  so  perfect  a  j-outh 
and  accept  the  honoui-able  duty  of  assisting  in  the  perpetua- 
tion of  the  Feverels.  The  baronet  went  on  to  say  that  he 
proposed  to  set  forth  immediately,  and  devote  a  couple  of 
months,  to  the  first  essay  in  his  Cojlebite  search. 

"I  fear,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  when  the  project  had  l)een 
fully  unfolded,  "you  have  laid  down  for  yourself  a  diliicult 
task.     You  must  not  be  too  exacting." 

"  I  know  it."    The  baronet's  shake  of  the  head  was  piteous. 

"  Even  in  England  she  will  be  rare.  But  I  confine  myself 
to  no  class.  If  I  ask  for  blood  it  is  for  untainted,  not  what 
you  call  high  blood.  I  believe  many  of  the  middle  classes 
are  frequently  more  careful — more  pure-blooded — than  our 
aristocracy.  Show  me  among  them  a  God-fearing  family 
who  educate  their  children — I  should  prefer  a  girl  without 
brothers  and  sisters — as  a  Christian  damsel  should  be  edu- 
cated— say,  on  the  model  of  my  son,  and  she  may  be  penni- 
less, I  will  pledge  her  to  Richard  Feverel." 

Lady  Blandish  bit  her  lip.  "  And  what  do  you  do  with 
Richard  while  you  are  absent  on  this  expedition  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  baronet,  "  he  accompanies  his  father." 

"  Then  give  it  up.  His  future  bride  is  now  pinafored  and 
brcad-and-buttery.  She  romps,  sheci-ies,  she  dreams  of  play 
and  pudding.  How  can  he  care  for  her  ?  He  thinks  moi-o 
at  his  age  of  old  women  like  me.  He  will  be  certain  to  kick 
against  her,  and  destroy  A'our  plan,  believe  me.  Sir  Austin." 

"  Ay  ?  ay  ?  do  you  think  that  ?  "  said  the  baronet. 

Lady  Blandish  gave  him  a  multitude  of  reasons. 

"  Ay  !  true,"  he  muttered.  "  Adrian  said  the  same.  He 
must  not  see  her.  How  could  I  tliink  of  it !  The  child  is 
naked  woman.     He  would  despise  her.     Naturally  !  " 

"  IS^atnrally  !  "  echoed  the  lady. 

"  Then,  madam,"  and  the  baronet  rose,  "  there  is  one  thing 


AN  ATTHACTION.  »1 

for  me  to  determine  upon.  I  must,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  leave  him." 

"  Will  you,  indeed  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

"  It  is  my  duty,  madam,  having  thus  brought  him  up,  to 
see  that  he  is  properly  mated, — not  wrecked  upon  the  quick- 
sands of  marriage,  as  a  youth  so  delicately  trained  might  be ; 
more  easily  than  another  !  Betrothed,  he  will  be  safe  from 
a  thousand  snares.  I  may,  I  think,  leave  him  for  a  term. 
My  precautions  have  saved  him  from  the  temptations  of  his 
season." 

"  And  under  whose  charge  will  you  leave  him  ?  "  Lady 
Blandish  inquired. 

She  had  emerged  from  the  temple,  and  stood  beside  Sir 
Au.stin  on  the  upper  steps,  under  a  clear  summer  twilight. 

"  Madam  !  "  he  took  her  hand,  and  his  voice  was  gallant 
and  tender,  "  under  whose  but  yours  ?  " 

As  the  baronet  said  this,  he  bent  above  her  hand,  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips. 

Lady  Blandish  felt  that  she  had  been  wooed  and  asked  in 
wedlock.  She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  The  baronet's 
salute  was  flatteringly  reverent.  He  deliberated  over  it,  as 
one  going  through  a  grave  ceremony.  And  he,  the  scorner  of 
women,  had  chosen  her  for  his  homage  !  Lady  Blandish  for- 
got that  she  had  taken  some  trouble  to  arrive  at  it.  She 
received  the  exquisite  compliment  in  all  its  unique  honey- 
sweet  :  for  in  love  we  must  deserve  nothing  or  the  fine 
bloom  of  fruition  is  gone. 

The  lady's  hand  was  still  in  durance,  and  the  baronet  had 
not  recovered  from  his  profound  inclination,  when  a  noise 
from  the  neighbouring  beechwood  stai'tled  the  two  actors  in 
this  courtly  pantomime.  They  turned  their  heads,  and  beheld 
the  hope  of  Raynham  on  hoi-seback,  surveying  the  scene 
aghast.     The  next  moment  ho  had  galloped  awaj. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


AN     ATTRACTION. 


All  night  Richard  tossed  on  liis  bed  with  his  heart  in  a 
rapid  canter,  and  liis  brain  bestriding  it,  traversing  the  rich 


02  THE  ORDEAT.  OF  RTCnARD  FEVEREL. 

nntnsted  world,  and  the  great  Realm  of  Mystery,  from  wliich 
ho  was  now  restrained  no  longer.  ^lonths  he  had  wandered 
about  the  gates  of  the  ]]onnet,  wondering,  sighing,  knocking 
at  them,  and  getting  neither  admittance  nor  answer.  He  had 
the  key  now.  His  own  father  had  given  it  to  him.  His 
heart  was  a  lightning  steed,  and  bore  him  on  and  on  over 
limitless  regions  bathed  in  superhuman  beauty  and  strange- 
ness, where  cavaliers  and  ladies  leaned  whispering  upon  close 
green  swards,  and  knights  and  ladies  cast  a  splendour  upon 
savage  forests,  and  tilts  and  tourneys  were  held  in  golden 
courts  lit  to  a  glorious  day  by  ladies'  eyes,  one  pair  of  which, 
dimly  visioned,  constantly  distinguishable,  followed  him 
through  the  boskage  and  dwelt  upon  him  in  the  press, 
beaming  while  he  bent  above  a  hand  glittering  white  and 
fragi-ant  as  the  frosted  blossom  of  a  May  night.  Awhile  the 
heart  would  pause  and  flutter  to  a  shock  :  he  was  in  the  act 
of  consummating  all  earthly  bliss  by  pressing  his  lips  to  the 
small  white  hand.  Only  to  do  that,  and  die  !  cried  the 
Magnetic  Youth :  to  fling  the  Jewel  of  Life  into  that  one 
cup  and  drink  it  off  I  He  was  intoxicated  by  anticipation. 
For  that  he  was  born.  There  was,  then,  some  end  in  existence, 
something  to  live  for  !  to  kiss  a  woman's  hand,  and  die  ! 
He  would  leap  from  the  couch,  and  rush  to  pen  and  paper  to 
relieve  his  swarming  sensations.  Scarce  was  he  seated  when 
the  pen  was  dashed  aside,  the  paper  sent  flying  with  the 
exclamation,  "  Have  I  not  sworn  I  would  never  write  again? '' 
Sir  Austin  had  shut  that  safety-valve.  The  nonsense  that 
was  in  the  youth  might  have  poured  harmlessly  out,  and  its 
urgency  for  ebullition  was  so  great  that  he  was  repeatedly 
oblivious  of  his  oath,  and  found  himself  seated  under  the 
lamp  in  the  act  of  composition  before  pride  could  speak  a 
woi'd.  Possibly  the  pride  even  of  Richard  Feverel  had  been 
swamped  if  the  act  of  composition  were  easy  at  such  a  time, 
and  a  single  idea  could  stand  clearly  foi-emost ;  but  myriads 
were  demanding  the  first  place ;  chaotic  hosts,  like  ranks  of 
stormy  billows,  pressed  impetuously  for  expression,  and 
despair  of  reducing  them  to  form,  quite  as  much  as  pride,  to 
which  it  pleased  him  to  refer  his  incapacity,  threw  down  the 
powerless  pen,  and  sent  him  panting  to  his  outstretched 
length  and  another  headlong  career  through  the  rosy-girdled 
land. 

Toward     morninor  the  madness  of  the  fever  abated  some* 


AN  ATTRACTION".  93 

what,  and  lie  went  forth  into  the  air.  A  lamp  was  still 
burning  in  his  father's  room,  and  Richard  thought,  as  he 
looked  up,  that  he  saw  the  ever-viq-ilant  head  on  the  watch. 
Instantly  the  lamp  was  extinp-nished,  the  window  stood  cold 
against  the  hues  of  dawn.  Had  he  cast  a  second  glance  at 
his  own  chamber  he  might  then  have  seen  the  ever-vigilanfc 
head  on  the  watch.  Sir  Austin  had  slept  no  more  than  his 
son.  Beholding  him  so  eai'ly  abroad  his  worst  fears  were 
awakened.  He  hurried  to  g'aze  at  the  foisaken  couch,  a 
picture  of  tempest ;  the  papers,  with  half- written  words 
ending  in  reckless  tails  and  wild  dashes,  strewn  everywhere 
about,  blankly  eloqvient ;  chairs  ui:)set,  drawers  left  open, 
companion  slippers  astray  about  the  room.  The  abashed 
baronet  dared  not  whisper  to  his  soul  what  had  thus  dis- 
tracted the  youth.  As  little  could  he  make  self-confession 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  face  his  son  for  some  time 
to  come.  1^0  doubt  his  conscious  eye  looked  inward,  and 
knew  ;  but  he  chose  to  juggle  with  it,  and  say  to  himself, 
that  not  an  hour  must  be  lost  in  betrothing  Richard,  and 
holding  him  bond  to  virtue,  and  therefore  he  would  imme- 
diately depart  on  his  expedition.  The  pain  of  not  folding 
the  beloved  son  to  his  breast  before  he  went  was  moreover 
a  fortunate  beguilement  of  the  latent  dread  that  his  going 
just  now  was  a  false  step.  It  would  be  their  first  separation. 
Sir  Austin  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  Abbey,  and  descried 
him  hastening  to  the  boat-house  by  the  riverside.  Ere  he 
was  out  of  sight,  the  baronet's  sense  of  sacrifice  had  blinded 
his  conscious  eye,  and  enabled  him  to  feel  altogether  a  mai'tyr 
to  duty. 

Strong  pulling  is  an  excellent  medical  remedy  for  certain 
classes  of  fever.  Richard  took  to  it  instinctively.  The 
clear  fresh  water,  burnished  with  sunrise,  sparkled  against 
his  arrowy  prow  ;  the  soft  deep  shadows  curled  smiling  away 
from  his  gliding  keel.  Overhead  solitary  morning  unfolded 
itself,  from  blossom  to  bud,  from  bud  to  flower  ;  still  delicious 
changes  of  light  and  colour,  to  whose  influences  he  was  heed- 
less as  he  shot  under  willows  and  aspens,  and  across  sheets 
of  rivei'- reaches,  pure  mirroi'S  to  the  upper  glory,  himself 
the  sole  tenant  of  the  stream.  Somewhere  at  the  founts  of 
the  world  lay  the  land  he  Avas  rowing  toward  ;  something  of 
its  shadowed  lights  might  be  discerned  here  and  there.  It 
was  not  a  dream,  now  he  knew.     There  was  a  secret  abroad. 


I«4  THR  OKDEM,  OF  RTCnARD  FKVKREL. 

The  woods  were  full  of  it;  the  waters  i-ollcd  with  it,  and  the 
wJTads.  Oh,  why  could  not  one  in  these  days  do  some  high 
knightly  deed  which  should  draw  down  ladies'  eyes  from 
their  heaven,  as  in  the  days  of  Arthur !  To  such  a  meaning 
breathed  the  unconscious  sighs  of  the  youth,  when  lie  had 
pulled  through  his  first  feverish  energy. 

Ho  was  oil'  Bursley,  and  had  lapsed  a  little  into  that  musing 
quietude  which  follows  strenuous  exercise,  when  he  heard  a 
hail  and  his  own  name  called.  It  was  no  lady,  no  fairy,  but 
young  Ralph  ^lorton,  an  irruption  of  miserable  masculine 
prose.  Heartily  wishing  him  abed  with  the  rest  of  mankind, 
Richard  rowed  in  and  jumped  ashore.  Ralph  immediately 
seized  his  ai"m,  saying  that  he  desired  cai-nestly  to  have  a 
talk  with  him,  and  dragged  the  Magnetic  Youth  from  his 
water-dreams,  up  and  down  the  wet  mown  grass.  That  he 
had  to  say  seemed  to  be  diiiicult  of  utterance,  and  Richard, 
though  he  barely  listened,  soon  had  enough  of  his  old  rival's 
gladness  at  seeing  him,  and  exhibited  signs  of  impatience ; 
whereat  Ralph,  as  one  who  bi-anches  into  matter  somewhat 
foreign  to  his  mind,  but  of  great  human  interest  and  import- 
ance, put  the  question  to  him: 

"  I  say,  what  woman's  name  do  you  like  best  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  any,"  quoth  Richard  indifferently.  "  Why 
are  you  out  so  early  ?" 

In  answer  to  this,  Ralph  suggested  that  the  name  of  Mary 
might  be  considered  a  pretty  name. 

Richard  agreed  that  it  might  be ;  the  housekeeper  at 
Raynham,  half  the  women  cooks,  and  all  the  housemaids, 
enjoyed  that  name  ;  the  name  of  Mary  was  equivalent  for 
woman  at  home. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Ralph.  "  We  have  lots  of  Marys. 
It's  80  common.  Oh  !  I  don't  like  Mary  best.  What  do  you 
think  of  Lucy  ?" 

Richard  thought  it  just  like  another. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Ralph  continued,  throwing  off  the  mask 
and  plunging  into  the  subject,  "  I'd  do  anything  on  earth 
for  some  names — one  or  two.  It's  not  Mary,  nor  Lucy. 
Clarinda's  pretty,  but  it's  like  a  novel.  Claribel,  I  like. 
Names  beginning  with  '  CI '  I  prefer.  The  '  Cl's  '  are  always 
gentle  and  lovely  girls  you  would  die  for !  Don't  you  think 
80  ?" 

Richard  had  never  been  acquainted  with  any  of  them  to 
ir.-spiie   that  emotion.     Indeed  these  urgent  appeals  to  his 


AN  ATTRACTION.  95 

fancy  in  feminine  names  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
slightly  surprised  liim,  thougli  lie  was  but  half  awake  to  the 
outer  world.  By  degrees  he  perceived  that  Ralph  was  quite 
changed.  Instead  of  the  lusty,  boisterous  boy,  his  rival  in 
manly  sciences,  who  spoke  straightforwardly  and  acted  up  to 
his  speech,  here  was  an  abashed  and  blush-persecuted  youth, 
who  sued  piteously  for  a  friendly  ear  wherein  to  pour  the  one 
idea  possessing  him.  Gradually,  too,  Richard  apprehended 
that  Ralph  likewise  was  on  the  frontiers  of  the  Realm  of 
Mystery,  perhaps  further  towards  it  than  he  himself  was ; 
and  then,  as  by  a  sympathetic  stroke,  was  revealed  to  him 
the  wonderful  beauty  and  depth  of  meaning  in  feminine 
names.  The  theme  appeared  novel  and  delicious,  fitted  to 
the  season  and  the  hour.  But  the  hardship  was  that  Richard 
could  choose  none  from  the  number;  all  were  the  same  to 
him  ;  he  loved  them  all. 

"  Don't  you  really  prefer  the  '  Cl's  '  ?  "  said  Ralph,  most 
persuasively. 

"Not  better  than  the  names  ending  in  '  a '  and  '  y,' 
Richard  replied,  wishing  he  could,  for  Ralph  was  evidently 
ahead  of  him. 

"  Come  under  these  trees,"  said  Ralph.  And  under  the 
trees  Ralph  unbosomed.  His  name  was  down  for  the  army : 
Eton  was  quitted  for  ever.  In  a  few  months  he  would 
have  to  join  his  regiment,  and   before  he  left  he  must  say 

good-bye  to  his  friends Would  Richaixl  tell  him  Mrs. 

Forey's  address  ?  he  had  heard  she  was  somewhere  by  the 
sea.  Richard  did  not  remember  the  address,  but  said  he 
would  willingly  take  charge  of  any  letter  and  forward  it. 

"  Will  you  ?  "  cried  Ralph,  diving  his  hand  into  his 
pocket;  "  here  it  is.     But  don't  let  anybody  see  it." 

"  My  aunt's  name  is  not  Clare,"  said  Richard,  perusing 
what  was  composed  of  the  exterior  formula.  "  Ah  !  why, 
you've  addressed  it  to  Chxre  hei-self." 

"Have  I?"  murmured  Ralph,  hiding  his  hot  face  in  a 
stumble,  and  then  peeping  at  the  address  to  verify.  "  So  I 
have.  The  address,  you  know  ....  It's  because  I  like  to 
write  the  name  of  Clare,"  he  added  huri-icdly  by  way  of 
excellent  justification. 

"  Is  that  the  name  you  like  best  ?  " 

Ralph  counterqueried,  "  Don't  you  think  it  very  nice- 
beautiful,  I  mean  r* " 


06  THE  OraiF.AL  OF  RTCnARD  FEVEREL. 

"  Not  SO  cfood  as  Clara,"  said  Richard. 

"  Oh  !  a  hundred  times  better,"  shouted  young  Ralph  in  a 
fervour. 

Riehard  meditated  unwittingly — "  I  suppose  we  like  the 
names  of  the  people  we  like  best  r"  " 

No  answer  from  Ralph. 

"  Emmeline  Clementina  Matilda  Laura,  Countess  Bland- 
ish," Richai'd  continued  in  a  low  tone,  transferring  the 
names,  and  playins:  on  them  like  musical  strings. 

"  Eh  ?  "  quoth  Ralph. 

"  I'm  certain,"  said  Richard,  as  he  finished  his  perform- 
ance, "  I'm  certain  we  like  the  names  of  the  people  we  like 
best."  And,  having  made  this  great  discovery  for  himself, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  blushing  Ralph.  If  he  discovered  any- 
thing further  he  said  nothing,  but  bade  him  good-bye, 
jumped  back  into  his  boat,  and  pulled  down  the  tide.  Tho 
moment  Ralph  was  hidden  by  an  abutment  of  the  banks, 
Richard  reperused  the  address.  For  the  fii'st  time  it 
struck  him  that  his  cousin  Clare  was  a  very  charming 
creature  :  he  remembered  the  look  of  her  eyes,  and  especially 
the  last  reproachful  glance  she  gave  him  at  parting. 
What  business,  pray,  had  Ralph  to  write  to  her  ?  Did  sh'' 
not  belong  to  him  Richard  Feverel  ?  He  read  the  words 
again  and  again  :  Clara  Doria  Forey.  Why,  Clare  was 
the  name  he  liked  best — nay,  he  loved  it.  Doria,  too — she 
shared  his  own  name  with  him.  Away  went  his  heart,  not  at 
a  canter  now,  at  a  gallop,  as  one  who  sights  the  quarry. 
He  felt  too  weak  to  pull.  Clare  Doria  Forey — oh,  perfect 
melody!  Sliding  with  the  tide,  he  heard  it  fluting  in  the 
bosom  of  the  hills. 

When  nature  has  made  us  ripe  for  love,  it  seldom  occurs 
that  the  Fates  are  behindhand  in  furnishing  a  temple  for 
the  flame. 

Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken  by  the 
thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying  at 
anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from  tht> 
banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble,  and  there  also 
hung  a  daughter  of  earth.  Hei-  face  was  shaded  by  a  broad 
straw  hat  with  a  flexible  bi-im  that  left  her  lips  and  chin  in  the 
Bun,  and,  sometimes  nodding,  sent  forth  a  light  of  promising 
eyes.  Across  her  sliouldei-s,  and  behind,  flowed  large  loose 
curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden  where  the  ray  touched 


AN  ATTRACTION-.  97 

them.  Sho  was  simply  dressed,  befitting  decency  and  th© 
season.  On  a  closer  inspection  you  might  see  that  her  lips 
were  stained.  This  blooming  young  person  was  regaling  on 
dewberries.  They  grew  between  the  bank  and  the  water. 
Apparently  she  found  the  fruit  abundant,  for  her  hand  was 
making  pretty  progress  to  her  mouth.  Fastidious  youth, 
wliich  shudders  and  revolts  at  woman  plumping  her  ex- 
quisite proportions  on  bread-and-buttoi%  and  would  (we 
raust  supjiose)  joyfully  have  her  quite  scraggy  to  have  her 
quite  poetical,  can  hardly  object  to  dewberries.  Indeed  the 
act  of  eating  them  is  dainty  and  induces  musing.  The  dew- 
berry is  a  sister  to  the  lotus,  and  an  innocent  sister.  You 
eat :  mouth,  eye,  and  hand  are  occupied,  and  the  undrugged 
mind  free  to  roam.  And  so  it  was.  with  the  damsel  who 
knelt  there.  The  little  skylark  went  up  above  her,  all  song, 
to  the  smooth  southern  cloud  lying  along  the  blue :  from  a 
dewy  copse  standing  dark  over  her  nodding  hat  the  black- 
bird fluted,  calling  to  her  with  thrice  mellow  note  :  the  king- 
fisher flashed  emerald  out  of  green  osiers :  a  bow-winged 
heron  travelled  aloft,  seeking  solitude  :  a  boat  slipped  to- 
ward her,  containing  a  dreamy  youth;  and  still  she  plucked 
the  fi'uit,  and  ate,  and  mused,  as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  in- 
vading her  teri-itories,  and  as  if  sh"  wished  not  for  one,  or 
knew  not  her  wishes.  Surrounded  by  the  green  shaven 
meadows,  the  pastoral  summer  buzz,  the  weirfall's  thunder- 
ing white,  amid  the  breath  and  beauty  of  wild  flowers,  she 
was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life  in  a  fair  setting;  a  terrible 
attraction.  The  ]\fagnetic  Youtli  leaned  round  to  note  his 
proximity  to  the  weir-piles,  and  beheld  the  sweet  vision. 
Stiller  and  stiller  grew  natui'C,  as  at  the  meeting  of  two 
electric  clouds.  Her  posture  was  so  gi'aceful  tliat,  though 
he  was  making  straight  for  the  weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a 
scull.  Just  then  one  most  enticing  dewberry  caught  her 
eyes.  He  was  floating  by  unheeded,  and  saw  that  her  hand 
stretched  low,  and  could  not  gather  what  it  sought.  A 
stroke  from  his  right  brought  him  beside  her.  The  damsel 
glanced  up  dismayed,  and  her  whole  shape  trembled  over 
the  bi'ink.  Richard  sprang  from  his  bof.t  into  the  water. 
Pressing  a  hand  beneath  her  foot,  which  she  had  thrust 
against  tlie  crumbling  wet  sides  of  the  bank  to  save  herself, 
he  enabled  her  to  recover  her  balance,  and  gain  safe  earth, 
•whither,  emboldened  by  the  incident,  touching  her  Cnger'g 
tip,  he  followed  her. 

H 


98  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTmATlD  FEVEREI* 

CHAPTER  XV. 

FERDINAND    AND    MIRANDA. 

Hr  lififl  landed  on  an  island  of  the  still-vexed  Bermoothes. 
The  world  lay  wrecked  behind  him:  Raynham  hunf^in  mists, 
remote,  a  phantom  to  the  vivid  reality  of  this  white  hand 
■which  had  diawn  him  thither  away  thousands  of  leases  in 
an  eye-twinkle.  Hark,  how  Ariel  sung  overhead  !  What 
splendour  in  the  heavens  !  What  marvels  of  beauty  about 
his  enchanted  head  !     And,  O  you  wonder !     Fair  Flame  !  by 

whose  li^'ht  the  glories  of  being  are  now  first  seen 

Radiant  Miranda  !  Prince  Ferdinand  is  at  your  feet. 

Ur  is  it  Adam,  his  rib  taken  from  his  side  in  sleep,  and 
thus  ti-ansfoi-med,  to  make  him  behold  his  Paradise,  and  lose 
it?  .  .  . 

The  youth  looked  on  her  with  as  glowing  an  eye.  It  was 
the  First  Woman  to  him. 

And  she — mankind  was  all  Caliban  to  her,  saving  this  one 
princely  youth. 

So  to  each  other  said  their  changeing  eyes  in  the  moment 
they  stood  together;  he  pale,  and  she  blushing. 

She  was  indeed  sweetly  fair,  and  would  have  been  held 
fair  among  rival  damsels.  On  a  magic  shore,  and  to  a  youth 
educated  by  a  System,  strung  like  an  airow  drawn  to  the 
head,  he,  it  might  be  guessed,  could  fly  fast  and  far  with 
her.  The  soft  rose  in  her  cheeks,  the  clearness  of  her  eyes, 
bore  witness  to  the  body's  virtue  ;  and  health  and  happy 
blood  were  in  her  bearing.  Had  she  stood  Vjefore  Sir  Austin 
among  rival  damsels,  that  Scientific  Humanist,  for  the  con- 
summation of  his  System,  would  have  thrown  her  the  hand- 
kerchief f  jr  his  son.  The  wide  summer-hat,  nodding  over 
her  forehead  to  her  brows,  seemed  to  flow  with  the  flowing 
heavy  curls,  and  those  fire-threaded  mellow  curls,  only  hall- 
curls,  waves  of  hair  call  them,  rippling  at  the  ends,  went 
like  a  sunny  red-veined  torrent  down  her  back  almost  to 
her  waist:  a  glorious  vision  to  the  youth,  who  embraced  it  as 
a  flower  of  beauty,  and  read  not  a  feature.  There  were 
curious  features  of  colour  in  her  face  for  him  to  have  read. 
Her  brows,  thick  and  brownish  against  a  soft  skin  showing 
the  action  of  the  blood,  met  in  the  bend  of  a  bow,  extend- 


FERDINAND  AND  MIRANDA.  99 

ing  to  the  temples  long  and  level :  joii  saw  tliat  she  was 
fasliioned  to  peruse  the  sights  of  earth,  and  by  the  plia- 
bility of  her  brows  tliat  the  wonderful  creature  used  her 
faculty,  and  was  not  going  to  be  a  statue  to  the  gazer. 
Under  the  dark  thick  brows  an  arch  of  lashes  shot  out,  giv- 
ing a  wealth  of  darkness  to  the  full  frank  blue  eyes,  a 
mystery  of  meaning — more  than  brain  was  ever  meant  to 
fathom :  richer,  hencefoi-th,  than  all  mortal  wisdom  to  Prince 
Ferdinand.  For  when  nature  turns  artist,  and  produces 
contrasts  of  colour  on  a  fair  face,  whci-e  is  the  Sage,  or  what 
the  Oracle,  shall  match  the  depth  of  its  ligLtest  look  ? 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  also  fair.  In  his  slim  boating-attire 
his  figure  looked  heroic.  His  hair,  rising  from  the  pai-ting 
to  the  I'ight  of  his  forehead,  in  what  his  admiring  Lady 
Blandish  called  his  plume,  fell  away  slanting  silkily  to  the 
temples  across  the  nearly  imperceptible  upward  curve  of 
his  brows  there — felt  more  than  seen,  so  slight  it  was — and 
gave  to  his  profile  a  bold  beauty,  to  which  his  bashful, 
breathless  air  was  a  flattering  charm.  An  arrow  drawn  to 
the  head,  capable  of  flying  fast  and  far  with  her !  He 
leaned  a  little  forward  to  her,  di-inking  her  in  with  all  his 
eyes,  and  young  Love  has  a  thousand.  Then  truly  the 
System  triumphed,  just  ere  it  was  to  fall  ;  and  could  Sir 
Austin  have  been  content  to  draw  the  arrow  to  the  head,  and 
let  it  fly,  when  it  would  fly,  he  might  have  pointed  to  his  son 
again,  and  said  to  the  woi-ld,  "  Match  him !  "  Such  keen 
bliss  as  the  youth  had  in  the  sight  of  her,  an  innocent  youth 
alone  has  powers  of  soul  in  him  to  experience. 

"  0  Women  !  "  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  in  one  of  its  soli- 
tary outbursts,  "Women,  who  like,  and  will  have  for  hero,  a 
rake !  how  soon  are  you  not  to  learn  that  you  have  taken 
bankrupts  to  your  bosoms,  and  that  the  putrescent  gold  that 
attracted  you  is  the  slime  of  the  Lake  of  Sin  !  " 

If  these  two  were  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  Sir  Austin  was 
not  Prospero,  and  was  not  present,  or  their  fates  might  have 
been  different. 

So  they  stood  a  moment,  changeing  eyes,  and  then  Miranda 
Bpoke,  and  they  came  down  to  eai-th,  feeling  no  less  in 
heaven. 

She  spoke  to  thank  him  for  his  aid.  She  used  quite  com. 
h2 


100  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RirilARn  FKVEREL. 

rann  simple  words  ;  and  used  them,  no  doubt,  to  ex]»rcRS  a 
common  Himplc  nit'uninj^  :  but  to  liim  she  was  uttering  magic, 
casting  spells,  and  the  elTect  they  had  on  him  was  man i tested 
in  the  incolierenee  of  his  i-ei)lies,  which  were  too  foolish  to 
be  chronicled. 

The  couple  were  again  mute.  Suddenly  Miranda,  with  an 
exclamation  of  anguish,  and  innumerable  lights  and  shadows 
j)laying  over  her  lovely  face,  cla[)pc(l  hei-  hands,  crying 
aloud,  "  My  book  !  my  book  !  "  and  ran  to  the  bank. 

Prince  Ferdinand  was  at  her  side.  "  What  have  you 
lost  ?  "  he  said, 

"  My  book  I  my  book  !  "  she  answered,  her  long  delicious 
curls  swinging  across  her  shouldei'S  to  the  sti-eam.  Then 
turning  to  him,  divining  his  rash  intention,  "  Oh,  no,  no  !  let 
me  entreat  you  not  to,"  she  said  ;  "  1  do  not  so  very  much 
mind  losing  it."  And  in  her  eagerness  to  restrain  him  she 
unconsciously  laid  her  gentle  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  took 
the  force  of  motion  out  of  him. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  really  care  for  the  silly  book,"  she  con- 
tinued, withdrawing  her  hand  quickly,  and  reddening. 
"  Pray  do  not !  " 

The  young  gentleman  had  kicked  of¥  his  shoes.  No  sooner 
was  the  spell  of  contact  broken  than  he  jumped  in.  The 
water  was  still  troubled  and  discoloured  by  his  introductoiy 
adventure,  and,  though  he  ducked  his  head  with  the  sy)irit  of 
a  dabchick,  the  book  was  missing.  A  scrap  of  paper  fkjating 
from  the  bramble  just  above  the  water,  and  looking  as  if  fire 
had  caught  its  hedges  and  it  had  flown  from  one  adver.se 
element  to  the  other,  was  all  he  could  lay  hold  of;  and  he 
returned  to  land  disconsolately,  to  hear  Miranda's  murmured 
mixing  of  thanks  and  pretty  expostulations. 

"  Let  me  try  again,"  he  said. 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  she  replied,  and  used  the  awful  threat : 
"I  will  run  away  if  you  do,"  which  effectually  restrained 
him. 

Her  eye  fell  on  the  fire-stained  scrap  of  paper,  and 
brightened,  as  she  cried,  "  There,  there !  you  have  what  I 
want.  It  is  that.  I  do  not  care  for  the  book.  No,  please  ! 
You  are  not  to  look  at  it.     Give  it  me." 

Before  her  playfully  imperative  injunction  was  fairly 
spoken,  Richard  had  glanced  at  th'j  document  and  discovered 
»  Griflin  between  Two   Wheatsheaves :  his  crest  in  silver: 


FERDINAND  AND  MIRANDA.  1  01 

and  below — O  wonderment  immense  !  his  own  hfindwriting  ! 
remnant  of  his  burnt-oifering  !  a  page  of  the  sacrificed 
poems  !  one  blossom  preserved  from  the  deadly  universal 
blight. 

He  handed  it  to  her  in  silence.  She  took  it,  and  put  it  in 
her  bosom. 

Who  would  have  said,  have  thought,  that,  where  all  else 
perished.  Odes,  flattering  bits  of  broad-winged  Epic,  Idyls, 
Lines,  Stanzas,  this  one  Sonnet  to  the  stars  should  be 
miraculously  reserved  for  such  a  starry  fate  !  passing 
beatitude  ! 

As  they  walked  silently  across  the  meadow,  Richard 
strove  to  remember  the  hour  and  the  mood  of  mind  in  which 
he  had  composed  the  notable  production.  The  stars  were 
invoked,  as  seeing  and  foreseeing  all,  to  tell  him  where  then 
his  love  reclined,  and  so  forth  ;  Hesper  was  complacent 
enough  to  do  so,  and  described  her  in  a  couplet — 

♦'  Through  sunset's  amber  see  me  shinins:  fair, 
As  her  blue  eyes  shine  through  her  golden  hair." 

And  surely  no  words  could  be  more  prophetic.  Here  were 
two  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair;  and  by  some  strange  chance, 
that  appeared  like  the  woi'king  of  a  divine  finger,  she  had 
become  the  possessor  of  the  prophecy,  she  that  was  to  fulfil 
it  !  The  youth  was  too  charged  with  emotion  to  speak. 
Doubtless  the  damsel  had  less  to  think  of,  or  had  some 
trifling  burden  on  her  conscience,  for  she  seemed  to  grow 
embarrassed.  At  last  she  drew  up  her  chin  to  look  at  lier 
companion  under  the  nodding  brim  of  her  hat  (and  tho 
action  gave  her  a  charmingly  freakish  air),  crying,  "  But 
where  are  you  going  to  ?  You  are  wet  through.  Let  me 
thank  you  again ;  and  pray  leave  me,  and  go  home  and 
change  instantly." 

"  Wet  ? "  replies,  tho  magnetic  muser,  with  a  voice  of 
tender  interest ;  "not  more  than  one  foot,  I  hope?  I  will 
leave  you  while  you  dry  your  stockings  in  the  sun." 

At  this  she  could  not  witlihold  a  shy  and  lovely  laugh. 

"  Not  I,  but  you.  You  know  you  saved  me,  and  would 
try  to  get  that  silly  book  for  me,  and  you  are  di'ipping  wet. 
Are  you  not  very  uncomfortable  ?  " 

In  all  sincerity  he  assured  her  that  he  was  not. 


102  THE  ORPKAL  OF  inCIlAr.D  FEAT'KEL. 

"  And  you  really  do  not  feel  that  you  are  wet  ?  ** 

Ho  really  did  not:  and  it  was  a  fact  that  he  spolce  truth. 

She  pursed  her  sweet  dewberry  mouth  in  the  most  comical 
way,  and  her  blue  eyes  lightened  laughter  out  of  the  lialf- 
closod  lids. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said,  her  mouth  opening,  and 
sounding  harmonious  bells  of  laughter  in  his  ears.  "  Pardon 
me,  won't  you  ?  " 

His  face  took  the  same  soft  smiling  curves  in  admiration 
of  her. 

"  Not  to  feel  that  you  have  been  in  the  water  the  very 
moment  after  !  "  she  musically  interjected,  seeing  she  was 
excused. 

"  It's  true,"  he  said ;  and  his  own  gravity  tlien  touched 
him  to  join  a  duet  with  her,  which  made  them  no  longer  feel 
strangers,  and  did  the  work  of  a  month  of  intimacy.  Better 
than  sentiment,  laughter  opens  the  breast  to  love ;  opens  the 
whole  breast  to  his  full  quiver,  instead  of  a  corner  here  and 
there  for  a  solitary  arrow.  Hail  the  occasion  propitious, 
O  British  young  !  and  laugh  and  treat  love  as  an  honest 
God,  an  I  dabble  not  with  the  sentimental  rouge.  These  two 
laug-hed,  and  the  souls  of  each  cried  out  to  other,  "  It  is  I, 
It  is  I." 

They  laughed  and  forgot  the  cause  of  their  laughter,  and 
the  sun  dried  his  light  river-clothing,  and  they  strolled 
toward  the  blackbird's  copse,  and  stood  near  a  stile  in  sight 
of  the  foam  of  the  weir  and  the  many- coloured  rings  of 
eddies  streaming  forth  from  it. 

Richard's  boat,  meanwhile,  had  contrived  to  shoot  tho 
weir,  and  was  swinging,  bottom  upward,  broadside  with 
the  curi-ent  down  the  rapid  backwater. 

"  Will  you  let  it  go,"  said  the  damsel,  eyeing  it  curi- 
ously. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  and  low,  as  if  he  spoke  in  the  core  of 
his  thought.     "  What  do  I  care  for  it  now  !  " 

His  old  life  was  whirled  away  with  it,  dead,  drowned. 
His  new  life  was  with  her,  alive,  divine. 

She  flapped  low  the  brim  of  her  hat.  "  Tou  must  really 
not  come  any  farther,"  she  softly  said. 

"  And  will  you  go,  and  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ?  "  he 
asked,  growing  l^old  as  the  fears  of  losing  her  came  across 
aim.  "  And  will  you  not  tell  me  before  you  go  " — his  face 
burned — "  how  you  came  by  that — that  paper  ?  " 


FERDINAND  AND  MIRANBA.  103 

She  chose  to  select  the  easier  question  to  reply  to  :  "  You 
ought  to  know  me  ;  we  have  been  introduced."  Sweet  was 
her  winning  off-hand  affability. 

"  Then  who,  in  heaven's  name,  are  you  ?  Tell  me !  I 
never  could  have  forgotten  you." 

"  You  have,  I  think,"  she  said  demurely. 

"  Impossible  that  we  could  ever  have  met,  and  I  forget 
you !  " 

She  looked  up  to  him  quickly. 

"  Do  you  remember  Belthorpe  ?  " 

"  Belthorpe!  Belthorpe  !  "  quoth  Richard,  as  if  he  had  to 
touch  his  brain  to  recollect  there  was  such  a  place.  "  Do 
you  mean  old  Blaize's  farm  ?  " 

"  Then  I  am  old  Blaize's  niece."  She  tripped  him  a  soft 
curtsey. 

The  magnetized  youth  gazed  at  her.  By  what  magic  was 
it  that  this  divine  sweet  creature  could  be  allied  with  that 
old  churl ! 

"  Then  what — what  is  your  name  ?  "  said  his  mouth,  while 
his  eyes  added,  "  O  wonderful  creature  !  How  came  you  to 
enrich  the  earth  ?  " 

"  Have  you  forgot  the  Desboroughs  of  Dorset,  too  ?  "  she 
peered  at  him  archly  from  a  side- bend  of  the  flapping 
brim. 

"  The  Desboroughs  of  Dorset  ?  "  A  light  broke  in  on 
him.  "  And  have  you  grown  to  this  ?  That  little  girl  I  saw 
there !  " 

He  drew  close  to  her  to  read  the  nearest  features  of  the 
vision.  She  could  no  more  laugh  off  the  piei-cing  fervour  of 
his  eyes.  Her  volubility  fluttered  under  his  deeply  wistful 
look,  and  now  neither  voice  was  high,  and  they  wei-e 
mutually  consti-ained. 

"  You  see,"  she  murmured,  "  we  are  old  acquaintances." 

Richard,  with  his  eyes  still  intently  fixed  on  her,  return 'jd, 
*'  You  are  very  beautiful !  " 

The  words  slipped  out.  Perfect  simplicity  is  uncon- 
sciously audacious.  Her  overpowering  beauty  struck  his 
heart,  and,  lil>^  an  instrument  that  is  touched  and  answers  to 
the  touch,  he  spoke. 

Miss  Desborough  made  an  elTort  to  ti-i(Ie  with  this  terrible 
directness  ;  but  his  eyes  would  not  be  gainsaid,  and  checked 
her  lips.     She   turned  away  from  them,  her  bosom  a  littlo 


104  THE  ORPEAL  OF  IlICIIARD  FEVEREL. 

rebellions.  Praise  so  passionately  spoken,  and  by  one  who 
has  been  a  damsel's  first  dream,  dreamed  of  nightly  many 
long  nights,  and  clothed  in  the  virgin  silver  of  her  thoughts 
in  bud,  praise  from  him  is  coin  the  heart  cannot  reject,  if  it 
would.     She  quickened  her  ster»s  to  the  stile. 

"  I  have  offended  you  !  "  said  a  mortally  wounded  voice 
across  her  shoulder. 

That  he  should  think  so  were  too  dreadful. 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  you  would  never  offend  me."  She  gave  him 
her  whole  sweet  face. 

"  Then  why — why  do  you  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  hesitated,  "  I  must  go." 

*'  No.     You  m.ust  not  go.     Why  must  you  go  ?     Do  not 

go-  ,  .  . 

"  Indeed  I  must,  '  she  said,  pulling  at  the  obnoxious  broad 

brim  of  her  hat;  and,  interpreting  a  pause  ho  made  for  his 

assent  to  her  rational  resolve,  shyly  looking  at  him,  she  held 

her  hand  out,  and  said,  "  Good-bye,"  as  if  it  were  a  natural 

thing  to  say. 

The  hand  was  pure  white — white  and  fragrant  as  the 
frosted  blossom  of  a  MajTiight.  It  was  the  hand  whose 
shadow,  cast  before,  he  had  last  night  bent  his  head  reveren- 
tially above,  and  kissed — resigning  himself  thereupon  over 
to  execution  for  payment  of  the  penalty  of  such  daring — 
by  such  bliss  well  rewarded. 

He  took  the  hand,  and  held  it,  gazing  between  her  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  again,  as  frankly  as  she  could,  and 
«.t  the  same  time  slightly  compressing  her  fingers  on  his  in 
token  of  adieu.  It  was  a  signal  for  his  to  close  firmly  upon 
hers. 

"  You  will  not  go  ?  " 

"  Pray  let  me,"  she  pleaded,  her  sweet  brows  suing  in 
wrinkles. 

"You  will  not  go  ?"  Mechanically  he  drew  the  white 
hand  nearer  his  thumping  heart. 

"  I  must,"  she  faltered  piteously. 

"  You  will  not  go  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  yes  !  " 

"  Tell  me.     Do  you  wish  to  go  ?  ** 

The  question  was  subtle.  A  moment  or  two  she  did  not 
answer,  and  then  forswore  herself,  and  said.  Yes. 

"  Do  you — do  you  wish  to  go  ?  "  He  looked  with  quiver, 
ing  eyelids  under  hers. 


FEEDINAND  AND  MIRANDA.  105 

A  fainter  Yes  responded  to  his  passionate  repetition. 

"  You  wish — wish  to  leave  me  ?  "  His  breath  went  with 
the  words. 

"  Indeed  I  must." 

Her  hand  became  a  closer  prisoner. 

All  at  once  an  alarming  delicious  shudder  went  through 
her  frame.  From  him  to  her  it  coursed,  and  back  from  her 
to  him.  Forward  and  back  love's  electric  messenger  rushed 
from  heart  to  heart,  knocking  at  each,  till  it  surged  tumul- 
tuously  against  the  bars  of  its  prison,  crying  out  for  its  mate. 
They  stood  trembling  in  unison,  a  lovely  couple  under  these 
fair  heavens  of  the  morning. 

When  he  could  get  his  voice  it  said,  "  Will  you  go  ?  " 

But  she  had  none  to  reply  with,  and  could  only  mutely 
bend  upward  her  gentle  wi'ist. 

"  Then,  farewell  !  "  he  said,  and,  dropping  his  lips  to  the 
soft  fair  hand,  kissed  it,  and  hung  his  head,  swinging  away 
from  her,  ready  for  death. 

Strange,  that  now  she  was  released  she  should  linger  by 
him.  Strange,  that  his  audacity,  instead  of  the  executioner, 
brought  blushes  and  timid  tenderness  to  his  side,  and  the 
sweet  words,  "  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  With  you,  O  Beloved  !  "  cried  his  soul.  "  And  you  for- 
give me,  fair  charity  !  " 

She  repeated  her  words  in  deeper  sweetness  to  his  be- 
wildered look ;  and  he,  inexperienced,  possessed  by  her, 
almost  lifeless  with  the  divine  new  emotions  she  had  realized 
in  him,  could  only  sigh  and  gaze  at  her  wonderingly. 

"  I  think  it  was  rude  of  me  to  go  without  thanking  you 
again,"  she  said,  and  again  proffered  her  hand. 

The  sweet  heaven-bird  shivered  out  his  song  above  him. 
The  gracious  glory  of  heaven  fell  upon  his  soul.  He  touched 
her  hand,  not  moving  his  eyes  from  her,  nor  speaking,  and 
she,  with  a  soft  word  of  farewell,  passed  across  the  stile,  and 
up  the  pathway  through  the  dewy  shades  of  the  copse,  and 
out  of  the  arch  of  the  light,  away  from  his  eyes. 

And  away  with  her  went  the  wild  enchantment.  He  looked 
on  barren  air.  But  it  was  no  more  the  world  of  yesterday. 
The  marvellous  splendours  had  sown  seeds  in  hun,  ready  to 
Bpring  up  and  bloom  at  her  gaze ;  and  in  his  bosom  now  the 
vivid  conjuration  of  her  tones,  hei-  face,  her  shape,  makes 


106  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTCHARD  FEVEREL. 

them  leap  and  illumine  him  like  fitful  summer  lightnings — 
ghosts  of  the  vanished  sun. 

There  was  nothing  to  tell  him  that  he  had  been  making 
love  and  declaring  it  with  extraordinary  rapidity;  nor  did 
he  know  it.  Soft  flushed  cheeks  !  sweet  mouth  !  strange  sweet 
brows !  eyes  of  softest  fire  !  how  could  his  ripe  eyes  behold 
you,  and  not  plead  to  keep  you  ?  Nay,  how  could  he  let  you 
go  ?     And  he  seriously  asked  himself  that  question. 

To-moiTow  this  place  will  have  a  memory — the  river  and 
the  meadow,  and  the  white  falling  weir:  his  heart  will 
buihl  a  temple  here;  and  the  skylark  will  be  its  high-priest, 
and  the  old  blackbird  its  glossy-gowned  chorister,  and  there 
will  be  a  sacred  repast  of  dewberries.  To-day  the  grass  is 
grass:  his  heart  is  chased  by  phantoms  and  finds  rest  no- 
where. Only  when  the  most  tender  freshness  of  his  flower 
comes  across  him  does  he  taste  a  moment's  calm ;  and  no 
sooner  does  it  come  than  it  gives  place  to  keen  pangs  of  fear 
that  she  may  not  be  his  for  ever. 

Erelong  he  learns  that  her  name  is  Lucy.  Erelong  he 
meets  Ralph,  and  discovers  that  in  a  day  he  has  distanced 
him  by  a  sphere.  Erelong  he  and  Ralph  and  the  curate  of 
Loboume  join  in  their  walks,  and  raise  classical  discussions 
on  ladies'  hair,  fingering  a  thousand  delicious  locks,  from  those 
of  Cleopatra  to  the  Borgia's.  "  Fair  !  fair  !  all  of  them  fair  !  " 
sighs  the  melancholy  cui-ate,  "  as  are  those  women  formed  for 
our  perdition  !  I  think  we  have  in  this  country  what  will 
match  the  Italian  or  the  Greek."  His  mind  flutters  to  Mrs. 
Dona,  Richard  blushes  before  the  vision  of  Lucy,  and  Ralph, 
whose  heroine's  hair  is  a  dark  luxuriance,  dissents,  and 
claims  a  noble  share  in  the  slaughter  of  men  for  dark-haired 
Wonders.  They  have  no  mutual  confidences,  but  they 
are  singularly  kind  to  each  other,  these  three  children  of 
instinct. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

UNMASK,  SG  OF  MASTER  EIPTON  THOMPSON. 

Lady  Blandish,  and  others  who  professed  an  interest  in 
the  fortunes  and  future  of  the  systematized  youth,  had  occa- 


UNMASKING  OF  MASTER  KIPTON  THOMrSON.  107 

Bionally  mentioned  names  of  families  whose  alliance  accord- 
ing to  apparent  calculations,  would  not  degrade  liis  blood : 
and  over  these  names,  secretly  preserved  on  an  open  leaf  of 
the  note-book,  Sir  Austin,  as  he  neared  the  metropolis,  dis- 
tantly dropped  his  eye.  There  were  names  historic  and 
names  mushroomic  ;  names  that  the  Conqueror  might  have 
called  in  his  muster-roll ;  names  that  had  been,  clearly, 
tossed  into  the  upper  stratum  of  civilized  life  by  a  mill- 
wheel  or  a  merchant-stool.  Against  them  the  baronet  had 
written  M.  or  Po.,  or  Pr. — signifying.  Money,  Position, 
Principles,  favouring  the  latter  with  special  brackets.  The 
wisdom  of  a  worldly  man,  which  he  could  now  and  then 
adopt,  determined  him,  before  he  commenced  his  rofind  of 
visits,  to  consult  and  sound  his  solicitor  and  his  physician 
thereanent ;  lawyers  and  doctors  being  the  rats  who  know 
best  the  merits  of  a  house,  and  on  what  sort  of  foundation  it 
is  standing. 

Sir  Austin  entered  the  great  city  with  a  sad  mind.  The 
memory  of  his  misfortune  came  upon  him  vividly,  as  if  no 
yeai\s  had  intervened,  and  it  were  but  yesterday  that  he 
found  the  letter  telling  him  that  he  had  no  wife  and  his  son 
no  mother.  He  wandered  on  foot  through  the  streets  the 
first  night  of  his  ari-ival,  looking  strangely  at  the  shops  and 
Bhows  and  bustle  of  the  world  from  which  he  had  divorced 
himself ;  feeling  as  destitute  as  the  poorest  vagrant.  He  had 
almost  forgotten  how  to  find  his  way  about,  and  came  across 
his  old  mansion  in  his  eiforts  to  regain  his  hotel.  The  win- 
dows were  alight — signs  of  merry  life  within.  He  stared  at 
it  from  the  shadow  of  the  opposite  side.  It  seemed  to  him 
he  was  a  ghost  gazing  upon  his  living  past.  And  then  the 
phantom  which  had  stood  there  mocking  while  he  felt  as 
other  men — the  phantom,  now  flesh  and  blood  reality,  seized 
and  convulsed  his  heart,  and  filled  its  unforgiving  crevices 
with  bitter  ironic  venom.  He  remembered  by  the  time 
reflection  returned  to  him  that  it  was  Algernon,  who  had  the 
house  at  his  disposal,  probably  giving  a  card-party,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort.  In  the  morning,  too,  ho  remembered  that 
he  had  divorced  the  world  to  wed  a  System,  and  must 
be  faithful  to  that  exacting  Spouse,  who,  now  alone  of  things 
on  earth,  could  fortify  and  recompense  him. 

Mr.  Thompson  received  his  client  with  the  dignity  and 
emotion  duo  to  such  a  rent-roll  and  the  unexpectedness  of 


108  THE  OKDEAL  OF  RTCIIARD  FEVETIEL. 

the  honour.  He  was  a  thin  stately  man  of  law,  garbed 
as  one  who  gave  audience  to  acred  bishops,  and  carrying  on 
his  countenance  the  stamp  of  paternity  to  the  pai-chment- 
skins,  and  of  a  virtuous  attachment  to  Port  wine  sufficient  to 
increase  his  respectability  in  the  eyes  of  moral  Britain. 
After  congratulating  Sir  Austin  on  the  fortunate  issue  of  two 
or  thiee  suits,  and  being  assured  that  the  baronet's  business 
in  town  had  no  concern  therewith,  Llr.  Thompson  ventured 
to  hope  that  the  young  heir  M'as  all  his  father  could  desire 
him  to  be,  and  heard  with  satisfaction  that  he  was  a  pattern 
to  the  youth  of  the  Age. 

"  A  difficult  time  of  life.  Sir  Austin  !  "  said  the  old  lawyer, 
shaking  his  head.  "  We  must  keep  our  eyes  on  them — keep 
awake !     The  mischief  is  done  in  a  minute." 

"  We  must  take  care  to  have  seen  where  we  planted,  and 
that  the  root  was  sound,  or  the  mischief  will  do  itself  in 
spite  of,  or  under  the  very  spectacles  of,  supervision,"  said 
the  baronet. 

His  legal  adviser  murmured  "  Exactly,"  as  if  that  were 
his  own  idea,  adding,  "  It  is  my  plan  with  Ripton,  who  has 
had  the  honour  of  an  introduction  to  you,  and  a  very 
pleasant  time  he  spent  with  my  young  friend,  whom  he  does 
not  forget.  Ripton  follows  the  Law.  He  is  articled  to  me, 
and  will,  I  trust,  succeed  me  worthily  in  your  confidence.  I 
bring  him  into  town  in  the  morning ;  I  take  him  back  at 
night.  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  am  quite  content  with 
him." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Sir  Austin,  fixing  his  brows,  "  that 
you  can  trace  every  act  of  his  to  its  motive  ?  " 

The  old  lawyer  bent  forward  and  humbly  requested  that 
this  might  be  repeated. 

"  Do  you  " — Sir  Austin  held  the  same  searching  expres- 
sion— "  do  you  establish  yourself  in  a  radiating  centre  of  in- 
tuition: do  you  base  your  watchfulness  on  so  thorough  an 
acquaintance  with  his  character,  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of 
the  instrument,  that  all  its  movements — even  the  eccentric 
ones — are  anticipated  by  you,  and  provided  for  ?  " 

The  explanation  was  a  little  too  long  for  the  old  lawyer  to 
entreat  another  repetition.  Winking  with  the  painful  de- 
precation of  a  deaf  man,  Mr.  Thompson  smiled  ui'banely, 
coughed  conciliatingly,  and  said  he  was  afraid  he  could  not 
affirm   that  much,  though  he  was   happily  enabled  to  say 


tTNMASKlNG  OF  MASTER  RIPTON  THOMrSON".  109 

that  Ripton   had    borne   an   extremely  good   character   at 
echoo] , 

"  I  find,"  Sir  Austin  remarked,  as  sardonically  he  relaxed 
his  inspecting  pose  and  mien,  "  there  are  fathers  who  are 
content  to  be  simply  obeyed.  Now  I  require  not  only  that  my 
son  should  obey ;  I  would  have  him  guiltless  of  the  impulse 
to  gainsay  my  wishes — feeling  me  in  him  stronger  than  his 
undeveloped  nature,  up  to  a  certain  period,  where  my  re- 
sponsibility ends  and  his  commences.  Man  is  a  self-acting 
machine.  He  cannot  cease  to  be  a  machine;  but,  though 
self-acting,  he  may  lose  the  powers  of  self-guidance,  and  in 
a  wrong  course  his  very  vitalities  hurry  him  to  perdition. 
Young,  he  is  an  organism  ripening  to  the  set  mechanic 
diurnal  round,  and  while  so  he  needs  all  the  angels  to  hold 
watch  over  him  that  he  grow  straight  and  healthy,  and  fit 
for  what  machinal  duties  he  may  have  to  perform  "... 

Mr.  Thompson  agitated  his  eyebrows  dreadfully.  He  was 
utterly  lost.  He  respected  Sir  Austin's  estates  too  much  to 
believe  for  a  moment  he  was  listening  to  downright  folly. 
Yet  how  otherwise  explain  the  fact  of  his  excellent  client 
being  incomprehensible  to  him  ?  For  a  middle-aged  gentle- 
man, and  one  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  advising  and  manag- 
ing, will  rarely  have  a  notion  of  accusing  his  understanding ; 
and  Mr.  Thompson  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  accusing 
his.  But  the  baronet's  condescension  in  coming  thus  to  him, 
and  speaking  on  the  subject  nearest  his  heart,  might  well 
affect  him,  and  he  quickly  settled  the  case  in  favour  of  both 
parties,  pronouncing  mentally  that  his  honoured  client  had 
a  meaning,  and  so  deep  it  was,  so  subtle,  that  no  wonder  he 
experienced  difficulty  in  giving  it  fitly  significant  words. 

Sir  Austin  elaborated  his  theory  of  the  Organism  and  the 
Mechanism,  for  his  lawyer's  edification.  At  a  recurrence  of 
the  word  "  healthy  "  Mr.  Thompson  caught  him  up — 

"  I  apprehended  you  !  Oh,  I  agree  with  you,  Sir  Austin  ! 
entirely  !  Allow  me  to  ring  for  my  son  Ripton.  I  think,  if 
you  condescend  to  examine  him,  you  will  say  that  regular 
habits,  and  a  diet  of  nothing  but  law-reading — for  other 
forms  of  literature  1  strictly  interdict — have  made  him  all 
that  you  instance." 

Mr.  Thompson's  hand  was  on  the  bell.  Sir  Austin  arrested 
him. 

"  Permit  me  to  see  the  lad  at  his  occupation,"  said  he. 


110  rilE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

Our  old  friend  Rijiton  sat  in  a  room  apart  with  the  con. 
fidcntial  clerk,  Mr.  Jieazley,  a  veteran  of  law,  now  littlo 
better  than  a  document,  looking  already  signed  and  sealed, 
and  shortly  to  be  delivered,  who  enjoined  nothing  from  his 
pupil  and  companion  save  absolute  silence,  and  sounded  his 
praises  to  his  father  at  the  close  of  days  when  it  had  been 
rigidly  observed — not  caring,  or  considering,  the  finished  dry 
old  document  that  he  was,  under  what  kind  of  spell  a  turbu- 
lent commonplace  youth  could  be  charmed  into  stillness  six 
hours  a  day.  Ripton  was  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  the 
study  of  Blackstone.  A  tome  of  the  classic  legal  commen- 
tator lay  extended  outside  his  desk,  under  the  partially 
lifted  lid  of  which  nestled  the  assiduous  student's  head 
— law  being  thus  brought  into  dii-ect  contact  with  his  bi-ain- 
pan.  The  office-door  opened,  and  he  heard  not ;  his  name 
was  called,  and  he  remained  e(|ually  moveless.  His  method 
of  taking  in  Blackstone  seemed  absoi-bing  as  it  was  novel. 

"  Comparing  notes,  I  daresay,"  whispered  Mr.  Thompson 
to  Sir  Austin.     "  I  call  that  study  !  " 

The  confidential  clerk  rose,  and  bowed  obsequious  senility. 

"  Is  it  like  this  every  day,  Beazley  ? "  Mr.  Thompson 
asked  with  parental  pride. 

"  Ahem  !  "  the  old  clei-k  replied,  "  he  is  like  this  every  day, 
sir.     I  could  not  ask  more  of  a  mouse." 

Sir  Austin  stepped  forward  to  the  desk.  His  proximity 
roused  one  of  Ripton's  senses,  which  blew  a  call  to  the  others. 
Down  went  the  lid  of  the  desk.  Dismay,  and  the  ardours  of 
study,  flashed  together  in  Ripton's  face.  He  slouched  from 
his  perch  with  the  air  of  one  who  means  rather  to  defend  his 
position  than  welcome  a  superior,  the  right  hand  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket  fumbling  a  key,  the  left  catching  at  his 
vacant  stool. 

Sir  Austin  put  two  fingers  on  the  youth's  shoulder,  and 
said,  leaning  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  in  a  way  habitual 
to  him,  "  I  am  glad  to  find  my  son's  old  comrade  thus  pro- 
fitably occupied.  I  know  what  study  is  myself.  But  beware 
of  prosecuting  it  too  excitedly  !  Come  !  you  must  not  be 
offended  at  our  interruption ;  you  will  soon  take  up  the 
thread  again.  Besides,  you  know,  you  must  get  accustomed 
to  the  visits  of  your  client." 

So  condescending  and  kindly  did  this  speech  sound  to  Mr. 
Thompson,  that,  seeing  Ripton  still  preserve  his  appearance 


UNMASKING  OF  MASTER  RIPTON  THOMPSON.  Ill 

of  disorder  and  sneaking  defiance,  he  tlionght  fit  to  nod  and 
frown  at  tlie  youth,  and  desired  him  to  iiiloi-m  the  baronet 
what  particular  part  of  Blackstone  he  was  absorbed  in 
mastering  at  that  moment. 

Ripton   hesitated    an   instant,    and  blundered   out,   with 
dubious  articulation,  "  The  Law  of  Gravelkind." 
"  What  Law  ?"  said  Sir  Austin,  perplexed. 
"  Gravelkind,"  again  rumbled  Ripton's  voice. 
Sir  Austin  turned  to  Mr.  Thompson  for  an  explanation. 
The  old  lawyer  was  shaking  his  law-box. 

"  Singular  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  He  will  make  that  mistake  ! 
What  law,  sir  ?" 

Ripton  read  his  error  in  the  sternly  painful  expression  of 
Lis  father's  face,  and  corrected  himself.     "  Gavelkind,  sir." 
"  Ah  ! "    said     Mr.     Thompson,   with    a    sigh    of    relief. 

"  Gravelkind,  indeed  !      Gavelkind  !     An  old  Kentish  " 

He  was  going  to  expound,  but  Sir  Austin  assured  him  he 
knew  it,  and  a  very  absurd  law  it  was,  adding,  "  I  should 
like  to  look  at  your  son's  notes,  or  remai-ks  on  the  judicious- 
ness of  that  family  arrangement,  if  he  has  any." 

"  Tou  were  making  notes,  or  referring  to  them,  as  we 
entered,"  said  Mr.  Thompson  to  the  sucking  lawyer ;  "  a 
very  good  plan,  which  I  have  always  enjoined  on  you.  Were 
you  not  ?" 

Ripton  stammered  that  he  was  afraid  he  had  not  any  notes 
to  show,  worth  seeing. 

"  What  were  you  doing  then,  sir  ?" 

"  Making  notes,"  muttered  Ripton,  looking  incarnate  sub- 
terfuge. 

"  Exhibit !" 

Ripton  glanced  at  his  desk  and  then  at  his  father  ;  at  Sir 
Austin,  and  at  the  confidential  clerk.  He  took  out  his  key. 
It  would  not  fit  the  hole. 

"  Exhibit !"  was  peremptorily  called  again. 
In  his  praiseworthy  efforts  to  accommodate  the  keyhole, 
Ripton  discovered  that  the  desk  was  already  unlocked.  Mr, 
Thompson  marched  to  it,  and  held  the  lid  aloft.  A  book  was 
lying  open  within,  which  Ripton  immediately  hustled  among 
a  mass  of  papers  and  tossed  into  a  dark  corner,  not  before 
the  glimpse  of  a  coloured  frontispiece  was  caught  by  Sir 
Austin's  eye. 

The  baronet  smiled,  and  said,  "You  study  Heraldry,  tooP 
Ai'o  you  fond  of  the  seiciiice?" 


112  THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVRRKL. 

Ripton  replied  that  he  was  very  fond  of  it — extremely 
attached,  and  threw  a  fui-ther  pile  of  papers  into  the  dark 
corner 

The  notes  had  been  less  conspicuously  placed,  and  the 
search  for  them  was  tedious  and  vain.  Papers,  not  leij^al,  or 
the  fruits  ot  study,  were  found  that  made  Mr.  Thompson 
more  intimate  with  the  condition  of  his  son's  exchequer ; 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  remark  on  the  Law  of  Gavelkind. 

Mr.  Thompson  suggested  to  his  son  that  they  might  bo 
among  those  sci-aps  he  had  thrown  carelessly  into  the  dark 
corner.  Ripton,  though  he  consented  to  inspect  them,  was 
positive  they  were  not  there. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?"  said  Mr.  Thompson,  seizing  a 
neatly  folded  paper  addressed  to  the  Editor  of  a  law  pub- 
lication, as  Ripton  brought  them  forth,  one  by  one.  Forth- 
with Mr.  Thompson  fixed  his  spectacles  and  read  aloud : 

"  To  the  Editor  of  the  Jurist. 
"  Sir, — In  your  recent  observations  on  the  great  case  of 


Mr.  Thompson  hem'd  !  and  stopped  short,  like  a  man  who 
comes  unexpectedly  upon  a  snake  in  his  path.  Mr.  Beazley's 
feet  shuffled.     Sir  Austin  changed  the  position  of  an  arm. 

"  It's  on  the  other  side,  I  think,"  gasped  Ripton. 

Mr.  Thompson  confidently  turned  over,  and  intoned  with 
emphasis. 

"  To  Absalom,  the  son  of  David,  the  little  Jew  usurer  of 
Bond  Court,  Whitecross  Gutters,  for  his  introduction  to 
Venus,  I  0  U  Five  pounds,  when  I  can  pay. 

"  Signed :  Ripton  Thompson." 

Undemeatli  tMs  fictitious  legal  instrument  was  discreetly 
appended : 

"  (Mem.  Document  not  binding.)" 

There  was  a  pause :  an  awful  under-breath  of  sanctified 
wonderment  and  reproach  passed  round  the  office.  Sir 
Austin  assumed  an  attitude,  Mr.  Thompson  shed  a  glance 
of  severity  on  his  confidential  clerk,  who  parried  by  thi-ow- 
ing  up  his  hands. 


UNMASKING  OF  MASTER  raPTON  TTIOMPSON.  113 

Ripton,  now  fairlj  bewildered,  stuffed  anotlier  paper 
tinder  his  father's  nose,  hoping-  the  outside  pei-haps  would 
Batisfy  him:  it  was  marked  "Legal  Considerations."  Mr 
Thompson  had  no  idea  of  sparing  or  shielding  his  son.  In 
fact,  like  many  men  whose  self-love  is  wounded  by  their 
offspring,  he  felt  vindictive,  and  was  ready  to  sacrifice  him 
up  to  a  certain  point,  for  the  good  of  both.  He  thereforfi 
opened  the  paper,  expecting  s  imething  worse  than  what  he 
had  hitherto  seen,  despite  its  formal  heading,  and  he  was  not 
disappointed. 

The  "  Legal  Considerations  "  related  to  the  Case  regarding 
which  Ripton  had  conceived  it  imperative  upon  him  to 
address  a  letter  to  the  Editor  of  the  "Jurist,"  and  was  in- 
deed a  great  case,  and  an  ancient ;  revived  appai-ently  for 
the  special  purpose  of  displaying  the  forensic  abilities  of  the 
Junior  Counsel  for  the  Plaintiff,  Mr.  Ripton  Thompson, 
whose  assistance  the  Attorney- General,  in  his  opening  state- 
ment, congratulated  himself  on  securing :  a  rather  unusual 
thing,  due  probably  to  the  eminence  and  renown  of  that 
youthful  gentleman  at  the  Bar  of  his  countiy.  So  much  was 
seen  from  the  copy  of  a  report  purporting  to  be  extracted 
from  a  newspaper,  and  pi-efixed  to  the  Junior  Counsel's 
remarks,  or  Legal  Considerations,  on  the  conduct  of  the 
Case,  the  admissibility  ami  non-admissibility  of  certain 
evidence,  and  the  ultimate  decision  of  the  judges. 

Mr.  TJiompson,  senior,  lifted  the  paper  high,  with  the 
spirit  of  one  prepared  to  d(  execution  on  the  criminal,  and 
in  the  voice  of  a  town-crier  varied  by  a  bitter  accentuation 
and  satiric  r^'ng-song  tone,  deliberately  read  : 

"  YULCAN  V.  MaKS. 

"  The  Attorney- General,  assisted  by  Mr.  Ripton  Thoni]». 
son,  appeai-ed  on  behalf  of  the  Plaintiff.  Mr.  Sei'jeant 
Cupid,  Q.C.,  and  Mr.  Capital  Opportunity,  for  the  De- 
fendant." 

"  Oh  !  "  snapped  Mr.  Thompson,  senior,  peering  venom  at 
the  unfortunate  Ripton  over  his  spectacles,  "  your  notes  are 
on  that  issue,  sir  !     Thus  yoi  employ  your  time,  sir !  " 

With  another  side-shot  at  the  Confidential  Clerk,  who 
retired  immediately  behind  a  strong  entrenchment  of  shrugs, 
Mr.  Thompson  continued  to  read 

I 


114  TTIR  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

"  This  Case  is  too  well  knoxNTi  to  reqiiire  more  tlian  a 
partial  summary  of  particulars  "  .  .  .  . 

"  Ahem  !  we  will  skip  the  particulars,  however  partial," 
eaid  Mr.  Thompson.  "  Ah  ! — what  do  you  mean  here,  sir, 
by  the  '  chief  of  the  Olympic  games,'  which  you  eulogize  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  answered  llipton,  from  under  his  head.  "  It's 
Mr.  Cap —  Mr.  Opp —  It's  the  Defendant's  Counsel.  I'm 
against." 

Outraged  by  hearing  the  culprit  speak  at  all,  his  father 
broke  in,  "  How  dare  you  talk  so  unblushingly,  sir !  " 

llipton  dropped  his  head  a  degree  lower. 

"  Enough  !  "  cried  Mr.  Thompson,  appealing  mutely  to  all 
present,  and  elongating  his  syllables  with  a  vehement  sneer; 
"  I  think  we  may  be  excused  your  Legal  Considei-ations  on 
such  a  Caee.  This  is  how  you  employ  your  law-studies,  sir ! 
You  put  them  to  this  purjjose  ?  Mr.  Beazley  !  you  will 
henceforward  sit  alone.  I  must  have  this  young  man  under 
my  own  eye.  Sir  Austin  !  permit  me  to  apologize  to  you  for 
subjecting  you  to  a  scene  so  disagi'eeable.  It  was  a  father's 
duty  not  to  spare  him." 

Mr.  Thompson  wiped  his  forehead,  as  Brutus  might  have 
done  after  passing  judgment  on  the  scion  of  his  house. 

"  These  papers,"  he  went  on,  fluttering  Ripton's  precious 
lucubrations  in  a  waving  judicial  hand,  "  I  shall  retain.  The 
day  will  come  when  he  will  regard  them  with  shame.  And 
it  shall  be  his  penance,  his  punishment,  to  do  so  !  Stop  !  " 
he  cried,  as  Ripton  was  noiselessly  shutting  his  desk,  "  have 
you  more  of  them,  sir  ;  of  a  similar  description  ?  Rout  them 
out !  Let  us  know  you  at  your  worst.  What  have  you 
there — in  that  corner?  " 

Ripton  was  understood  to  say  he  devoted  that  corner  to 
old  briefs  on  important  cases. 

Mr.  Thompson  thrust  his  trembling  fingers  among  the  old 
briefs,  and  turned  ovor  the  volume  Sir  Austin  had  observed, 
but  without  much  remarking  it,  for  his  suspicions  had  not 
risen  to  print. 

"  A  ^lanual  of  Heraldry  ?  "  the  baronet  politely  inquired, 
before  it  could  well  escape. 

"  I  like  it  very  much,"  says  Ripton,  clutching  the  book  in 
dreadful  torment. 

"  Allow  me  to  see  that  you  have  our  arms  and  crest 
correct."     The  bai'onet  jji-ofTerod  a  h.'inrl  foT-  the  hook. 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD.  115 

"  A  Griffin  between  two  Wheatsheaves,"  cries  Ripton,  still 
clutching  it  nervously. 

Mr.  Thompson,  without  any  notion  of  what  he  was  doing, 
drew  the  book  from  Ripton's  hold;  whereupon  the  two  seniors 
laid  their  grey  heads  together  over  the  title-page.  It  set 
forth  in  attractive  characters  beside  a  coloured  frontispiece, 
which  embodied  the  promise  displayed  there,  the  entrancing 
adventures  of  Miss  Random,  a  strange  young  lady. 

Had  there  been  a  Black  Hole  within  the  area  of  those  law 
regions  to  consign  Ripton  to  there  and  then,  or  an  Iron  Rod 
handy  to  mortify  his  sinful  flesh,  Mr.  Thompson  would  have 
used  them.  As  it  was,  he  contented  himself  by  looking  Black 
Holes  and  Iron  Rods  at  the  detected  youth,  who  sat  on  his 
perch  insensible  to  what  might  happen  next,  collapsed. 

Mr.  Thompson  cast  the  wicked  creature  down  with  a 
"  Pah  !  "  He,  however,  took  her  up  again,  and  strode  away 
with  her.  Sir  Austin  gave  Ripton  a  forefinger,  and  kindly 
touched  his  head,  saying,  "  Good-bye,  boy  !  At  some  future 
date  Richard  will  be  happy  to  see  you  at  Raynham." 

Undoubtedly  this  was  a  great  triumph  to  the  System  I 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD. 


The  conversation  between  solicitor  and  client  was  resumed. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  quoth  Mr.  Thompson,  the  moment  he  had 
ushered  his  client  into  his  private  room,  "  that  you  will  con- 
sent. Sir  Austin,  to  see  him  and  receive  him  again  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  the  baronet  replied.  "  Why  not  ?  This  by 
no  means  astonishes  me.  When  there  is  no  longer  danger  ta 
my  son  he  will  be  welcome  as  he  was  before.  He  is  a  school- 
boy.  I  knew  it.  I  expected  it.  The  results  of  your  prin- 
ciple, Thompson  !  " 

"  One  of  the  very  worst  books  of  that  abominable  class  !  '"* 
exclaimed  the  old  lawyer,  opening  at  the  coloured  frontis- 
piece, from  which  brazen  Miss  Riindom  smiled  bcwitchingly 
out,  as  if  she  had  no  doubt  of  captivating  Time  and  all  his 
veterans  on  a  fair  field.  "  Pah  !  "  he  shut  her  to  with  the 
energy  he  would  have  given  to  the  oil'ice  of  i)ublicly  slapping 

i2 


116  TlIE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

hei"  face  ;  ""from  tins  day  I  diet  him  on  broad  and  water- 
rescind  liis  pocket-money  ! — How  he  could  have  got  liohl  of 
such  a  book  !  llow  he — !  And  what  ideas  !  Concealing 
them  from  me  as  he  has  done  so  cunningly  !  He  trifles  with 
vice  !  His  mind  is  in  a  putrid  state  !  I  might  have  believed 
— I  did  believe — I  might  have  gone  on  believing — my  son 
Ripton  to  be  a  moral  young  man  !  "  The  old  law3-ei-  interjected 
on  the  delusion  of  fathers,  and  sat  down  in  a  lamentable 
abstraction. 

"  The  lad  has  come  out ! "  said  Sir  Austin.  *'  His  adoption 
of  the  legal  form  is  amusing.  He  trifles  with  vice,  true : 
people  newly  initiated  are  as  hardy  as  its  intimates,  and  a 
young  sinner's  amusements  will  resemble  those  of  a  confirmed 
debauchee.  The  satiated,  and  the  insatiate,  appetite  alike 
appeal  to  extremes.  You  are  astonished  at  this  revelation 
of  your  son's  condition.  I  expected  it ;  though  assuredly, 
believe  me,  not  this  suddeu  and  indisputable  proof  of  it. 
But  I  knew  that  the  seed  was  in  him,  and  therefore  I  have 
not  latterly  invited  him  to  llaynham.  School,  and  the  cor- 
ruption there,  will  bear  its  fruits  sooner  or  later.  I  could 
advise  you,  Thompson,  what  to  do  with  him :  it  would  be  my 
plan." 

^Ir.  Thompson  murmured,  like  a  true  coui-tier,  that  he 
should  esteem  it  an  honour  to  be  favoured  with  Sii-  Austin 
Feverel's  advice :  secretly  resolute,  like  a  true  Briton,  to 
follow  his  own. 

"Let  him,  then,"  continued  the  baronet,  "see  vice  in  its 
nakedness.  While  he  has  yet  some  innocence,  nauseate  him  ! 
yice,  taken  little  by  little,  usurps  gradually  the  whole  crea- 
ture. My  counsel  to  you,  Thompson,  would  be,  to  drag  him 
through  the  sinks  of  town." 

^fr.  Thompson  began  to  blink  again. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  punish  him.  Sir  Austin  !  Do  not  fear  me, 
sir.     I  have  no  tenderness  for  vice." 

"  That  is  not  what  is  wanted,  Thompson.  You  mistake 
me.  He  should  be  dealt  with  gently.  Heavens  !  do  you 
liope  to  make  him  hate  vice  by  making  him  a  martyr  for  its 
sake  ?  You  must  descend  from  the  pedestal  of  age  to 
become  his  IMentor :  cause  him  to  see  how  certainly  and 
pitilessly  vice  itself  punishes  :  accompany  him  into  ita 
haunts  " 

"  Over  town  ?  "  broke  forth  Mr.  Thompson. 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD.  H? 

"  Over  town,"  said  the  baronet. 

"  And  depend  upon  it,"  lie  added,  "  that,  until  fathers  act 
thoroughly  up  to  their  duty,  we  shall  see  the  sights  we  see 
in  great  cities,  and  hear  the  tales  we  hear  in  little  villages, 
with  death  and  calamity  in  our  homes,  and  a  legacy  of 
sorrow  and  shame  to  the  generations  to  come.  I  do  aver,' 
he  exclaimed,  becoming  excited,  "  that,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
duty  to  my  son,  and  the  hope  I  cherish  in  him,  I,  seeing  the 
accumulation  of  misery  we  are  handing  down  to  an  innocent 
posteHty — to  whom,  through  our  sin,  the  fi'esh  breath  of  life 
will  be  foul — I — yes  !  I  would  hide  my  name  !  For  whither 
are  we  tending  ?  What  home  is  pure  absolutely  ?  What 
cannot  our  doctors  and  lawyers  tell  us  ? 
Mr,  Thompson  acquiesced  significantly. 
"  And  what  is  to  come  of  this  ?  "  Sir  Austin  continued, 
**  When  the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  multiplied  by  the  sons,  is 
not  perdition  the  final  sum  of  things  ?  And  is  not  life,  the 
boon  of  heaven,  growing  to  be  the  devil's  game  utterly  ?  But 
for  my  son,  I  would  hide  my  name.  I  would  not  bequeath  it 
to  be  cursed  by  them  that  walk  above  my  srrave  !  " 

This  was  indeed  a  terrible  view  of  existence.  Mr.  Thomp- 
Bon  felt  uneasy.  There  was  a  dignity  in  his  client,  an  im- 
pressiveness  in  his  speech,  that  silenced  remonstrating  reason 
and  the  cry  of  long  years  of  comfortable  respectability.  Mr. 
Thompson  went  to  church  regularly;  paid  his  rates  and  dues 
without  overmuch,  or  at  least  more  than  common,  grumbling. 
On  the  sui'face  he  was  a  good  citizen,  fond  of  his  children, 
-  faithful  to  his  wife,  devoutly  marching  to  a  fair  seat  in  heaven 
on  a  path  paved  by  something  better  than  a  thousand  a  year. 
But  here  was  a  man  sighting  him  from  below  the  surface, 
j>>nd  though  it  was  an  unfair,  unaccustomed,  not  to  say  un- 
English,  method  of  regarding  one's  fellow-man,  Mr.  Thompson 
was  troubled  by  it.  What  though  his  client  exaggerated  ? 
Facts  were  at  the  bottom  of  what  he  said.  And  he  was  acute 
• — he  had  unmasked  Ripton  !  Since  Ripton's  exposure  he 
winced  at  a  personal  application  in  the  text  his  client 
preached  from.  Possibly  this  was  the  secret  soui'ce  of  part 
of  his  anger  asrainst  that  peccant  youth. 

Mr.  Thompson  sho  )k  his  head, and,  with  dolefully  puckered 
visage  and  a  pitiable  contraction  of  his  shoulders,  rose  slowly 
tip  from  his  chair.  Apparently  he  was  about  to  speak,  bu.. 
he  straightway  tuined  and  went  meditatively  to  a  side-reccsa 


118  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHABD  FEVEEEL. 

in  the  room,  whereof  he  opened  a  door,  drew  forth  a  traj 
and  a  decanter  lahellod  roiiT,  tilled  a  glass  for  his  client, 
deferentially  invited  him  to  partake  of  it;  filled  another 
glass  for  himself,  and  drank. 

That  was  his  reply. 

Sir  Austin  never  took  wine  before  dinner.  Thompson  had 
looked  as  if  he  meant  to  speak :  he  waited  for  Thompson's 
words. 

Mr.  Thompson  saw  that,  as  his  client  did  not  join  him  in 
his  glass,  the  eloquence  of  that  Forty  reply  was  lost  on  his 
client. 

Having  slowly  ingurgitated  and  meditated  upon  this 
precious  draught,  and  turned  its  flavour  over  and  over  with 
an  aspect  of  potent  Judicial  wisdom  (one  might  have  thought 
that  he  was  weighing  mankind  in  the  balance),  the  old 
lawyer  heaved,  and  said,  sharpening  iiis  lips  over  the  ad- 
mirable vintage,  "  The  world  is  in  a  very  sad  state,  I  fear, 
Sir  Austin !  " 

His  client  gazed  at  him  queerly. 

"  But  that,"  Mr.  Thompson  added  immediately,  ill-con- 
cealing by  his  gaze  the  glowing  intestinal  congi-atulations 
going  on  within  him,  "  that  is,  I  think  you  would  say.  Sir 
Austin — if  I  could  but  prevail  upon  you — a  tolerably  good 
chai-acter  wine  !  " 

"  There's  virtue  somewhere,  I  see,  Thompson  !  "  Sir 
Austin  murmured,  without  disturbing  his  legal  adviser's 
dimples. 

The  old  lawyer  sat  down  to  finish  his  glass,  saying,  that 
such  a  wine  was  not  to  be  had  everywhere. 

They  were  then  outwardly  silent  for  a  space.  Inwardly 
one  of  them  was  full  of  riot  and  jubilant  uproar:  as  if  the 
solernn  fields  of  law  were  suddenly  to  be  invaded  and 
possessed  by  troops  of  Bacchanals :  and  to  presei-ve  a 
decently  wretched  physiognomy  over  it,  and  keep  on  terms 
with  his  companion,  he  had  to  grimace  like  a  melancholy 
clown  in  a  pantomime. 

Mr.  Thompson  brushed  back  his  hair.  The  baronet  was 
still  expectant.  Mr.  Thompson  sighed  deeply,  and  emptied 
his  glass.  He  combated  the  change  that  had  come  over  him. 
He  tried  not  to  see  Ruby.  He  tried  to  feel  miserable,  and  it 
was  not  in  him.  He  spoke,  drawing  what  appropriate 
inspirations  he  could  from  his  client's  countenance,  to  show 


GOOD  WINE  AND  GOOD  BLOOD.  119 

that  they  had  views  in  common :  "  Degenerating  sadly,  I 
fear ! " 

The  baronet  nodded. 

"  According  to  what  my  wine-merchants  say,"  continued 
Mr.  Thompson,  "  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it." 

Sir  Austin  stared. 

"  It's  the  grape,  or  the  ground,  or  something,"  Mr.  Thomp- 
Bon  went  on.  "  All  I  can  say  is,  our  youngsters  will  have  a 
bad  look-out !  In  my  opinion  Government  should  be  com- 
pelled  to  send  out  a  Commission  to  inquire  into  the  cause. 
To  Englishmen  it  would  be  a  public  calamity.  It  surprises 
me — I  hear  men  sit  and  talk  despondently  of  this  extraor- 
dinary disease  of  the  vine,  and  not  one  of  them  seems 
to  think  it  incumbent  on  him  to  act,  and  do  his  best  to  stop 
it."  He  fronted  his  client  like  a  man  who  accuses  an  enor- 
mous public  delinquency.  "  Nobody  makes  a  stij- !  The 
apathy  of  Englishmen  will  become  proverbial.  Pray  try  it, 
Sir  Austin  !  Pray  allow  me.  Such  a  wine  cannot  disagi-ee 
at  any  hour.  Do  !  I  am  allowanced  two  glasses  three  hours 
before  dinner.  Stoinachic.  I  find  it  agree  with  me  surpi-is- 
ingly  :  quite  a  new  man.  I  suppose  it  will  last  our  time.  It 
must !  What  should  we  do  ?  There's  no  Law  possible  with- 
out it.  Not  a  lawyer  of  us  could  live.  Ours  is  an  occupa- 
tion which  dries  the  blood.  We  require — Ahem !  have  I 
taken  my  second  glass  ?  " 

Mr.  Thompson  meditated ;  conceived  that  he  had,  and 
again  that  he  had  not.  The  same  luxury  of  indecision 
occurred  daily,  and  daily  another  glass  solved  the  difficulty. 

"  Too  much  is  decidedly  bad,"  he  continued,  looking 
firmly  convinced.  "  But  just  the  quantum  makes  men  of 
ns." 

Launched  on  the  theme,  he  determined  to  overbear  his 
client  vinously. 

"  Now  that  very  wine — Sir  Austin — I  think  I  do  not  err 
in  saying,  that  very  wine  your  respected  father.  Sir  Pylcher 
Fcverel,  used  to  taste  whenever  he  came  to  consult  ray 
father,  when  I  was  a  boy.  And  I  i"cmember  one  day  being 
called  in,  and  Sir  Pylcher  himself  poured  me  out  a  glass.  I 
wish  I  could  call  in  Rii)ton  now,  and  do  the  same.  No! 
Leniency  in  such  a  case  as  that  ! — The  wine  would  not  hurt 
him — I  doubt  if  there  be  much  left  for  him  to  welcome  his 
guests  with.     Ha!  ha!     Now  if  I  could   persuade  you,  Sir 


120  TnE  ORDRAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

Austin,  as  you  do  not  take  wino  before  dinner,  some  day  to 
favour  mo  with  your  company  at  my  little  country  cottage — 
I  have  a  wine  there — the  fellow  to  that — I  think  you  would, 
I  do  think  you  would  " — ^Ir.  Thompson  meant  to  say,  he 
tliought  his  client  would  arrive  at  something  of  a  similar 
jocund  contemplation  of  his  fellows  in  their  degeneracy  that 
inspirited  lawyers  after  potation,  but  condensed  the  sensual 
promise  into  "  highly  approve." 

Sir  Austin  speculated  on  his  legal  adviser  with  a  sour 
mouth  comically  compressed. 

It  stood  clear  to  him  that  Thompsou  before  his  Port,  and 
Thompson  after,  were  two  different  men.  To  indoctrinate 
him  now  was  too  late:  it  was  perhaps  the  time  to  make  the 
positive  use  of  him  he  wanted. 

Drawing  forth  the  Note-book:  and  pencilling  roughly: 
"  Two  prongs  of  a  fork  ;  the  World  stuck  between  them — 
Port  and  the  Palate  :  'Tis  one  which  fails  first — Down  goes 
"World;"  and  again  the  hieroglyph — "Port-spectacles."  He 
said,  "  I  shall  gladly  accom})any  you  this  evening,  Thomp- 
son," words  that  transfigured  the  delighted  lawyer,  and 
restored  the  skeleton  of  a  great  Aphorism  to  his  pocket, 
there  to  gather  flesh  and  form,  with  numberless  othei-s  in  a 
like  condition. 

"  I  came  to  visit  my  lawyer,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  think 
I  have  been  dealing  with  The  World  in  epitome  !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  STSTTDM  ENCOUNTERS  THE  WILD  OATS  SPECIAL  PLEA> 

The  rumour  circulated  that  Sir  Austin  Feverel,the  recluse 
of  Raynham,  the  rank  misogynist,  the  rich  baronet,  was  in 
town,  looking  out  a  bride  for  his  only  son  and  uncorrupted 
heir.  Doctor  Benjamin  Baii-am  was  the  excellent  authority. 
Doctor  Bairana  had  safely  delivered  Mrs.  DeboT'ah  Gossip  of 
this  interesting  bantling,  which  was  forthwith  dandled  in 
dozens  of  feminine  laps.  Doctor  Bairam  could  boast  the 
first  interview  with  the  famous  recluse.  He  had  it  from 
his  own  lips  that  the  object  of  the  baronet  was  to  look  out  a 
bride  for  his  only  son  and  uncorrupted  heir  ;  "  and,"  added 


THE  WILD  OATS  PLEA.  121 

the  doctor,  "she'll  be  lucky  who  gets  him."  Which  was 
interpreted  to  mean,  that  he  would  be  a  catch ;  the  doctor 
probably  intending  to  allude  to  certain  extraordinary  difh- 
calties  in  the  way  of  a  choice. 

A  demand  was  made  on  the  publisher  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip  for  all  his  outstanding  copies.  Conventionalities  were 
defied,  A  summer-shower  of  cards  fell  on  the  baronet's 
table. 

He  had  few  male  friends.  He  shunned  the  Clubs  as  nests 
of  scandal.  The  cards  he  contemplated  were  mostly  those 
of  the  sex,  with  the  husband,  if  there  was  a  husband,  evi- 
dently dragged  in  for  propriety's  sake.  He  perused  the 
cards  and  smiled.  He  knew  their  purpose.  What  terrible 
light  Thompson  and  Bairam  had  thrown  on  some  of  them  ! 
Heavens  !  in  what  a  state  was  the  blood  of  this  Empire. 

Before  commencing  his  campaign  he  called  on  two  ancient 
intimates,  Lord  Heddon,  and  his  distant  cousin  Darley 
Absworthy,  both  Members  of  Parliament,  useful  men,  though 
gouty,  who  had  sown  in  their  time  a  fine  crop  of  wild  oats, 
and  advocated  the  advantage  of  doing  so,  seeing  that  they 
did  not  fancy  themselves  the  worse  for  it.  He  found  one 
with  an  imbecile  son  and  the  other  with  consumptive 
daughters.  "So  much,"  he  wrote  in  the  Note-book,  "for 
the  Wild  Oats  theory  !" 

Darley  was  proud  of  his  daughters'  white  and  pink  skins. 
"  Beautiful  complexions,"  he  called  them.  The  eldest  was 
in  the  market,  immensely  admired.  Sir  Austin  was  intro- 
duced to  her.  She  talked  fluently  and  sweetly.  A  youth 
not  on  his  guard,  a  simple  school-boy  youth,  or  even  a  man, 
might  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  she  was  so  affable  and 
fair.  There  was  something  poetic  about  her.  And  she  was 
quite  well,  she  said,  the  baronet  frequently  questioning  her 
on  that  point.  She  intimated  that  she  was  robust;  but 
towards  the  close  of  their  conversation  her  hand  would  now 
and  then  travel  to  her  side,  and  she  breathed  painfully  an 
instant,  saying,  "Isn't  it  odd?  Doi-a,  Adela,  and  myself, 
we  all  feel  the  same  queer  sensation — about  the  heart,  I 
think  it  is — after  talking  nmch." 

Sir  Austin  nodded  and  blinked  sadly,  exclaiming  to  hia 
Boul,  "  Wild  oats  !   wild  oats  !" 

Pie  did  not  ank  permission  to  see  Dora  and  Adelj^ 

Lord  Heddon  vehemently  preached  wild  oats. 


122  TTIR  ORPKAL  OF  RICHAED  FEVEREL. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,  Feverel,"  ho  said,  "  about  bringing  np 
a  liul  out  of  the  common  way.  Ko's  all  the  better  for  a  little 
racketing  when  he's  green — feels  his  bone  and  muscle — 
learns  to  know  the  world.  He'll  never  be  a  man  if  he  hasn't 
played  at  the  old  game  one  time  in  his  life,  and  the  earlier 
the  better.  I've  always  found  the  best  fellows  were  wildish 
once.  I  don't  care  what  he  does  when  he's  a  green-horn ; 
besides,  he's  got  an  excuse  for  it  then.  You  can't  expect  to 
have  a  man,  if  he  doesn't  take  a  man's  food.  You'll  have  a 
milksop.  And,  depend  upon  it,  when  he  does  break  out  he'll 
go  to  the  devil,  and  nobody  pities  him.  Look  what  those 
fellows,  the  grocers,  do  when  they  get  hold  of  a  young — 
what  d'ye  call  'em  ? — apprentice.  They  know  the  scoundrel 
was  born  with  a  sweet  tooth.  Well !  they  give  him  the  run 
of  the  shop,  and  in  a  very  short  time  he  soberly  deals  out 
the  goods,  a  devilish  deal  too  wise  to  absti-act  a  morsel  even 
for  the  pleasure  of  stealing.  I  know  you  have  contrary 
theories.  You  hold  that  the  young  grocer  should  have  a 
soul  above  sugar.  It  won't  do  !  Take  my  word  for  it, 
Feverel,  it's  a  dangerous  experiment,  that  of  bringing  up 
flesh  and  blood  in  harness.  No  colt  will  bear  it,  or  he's  a 
tame  beast.  And  look  you:  take  it  on  medical  grounds. 
Early  excesses  the  fi"ame  will  recover  from :  late  ones  break 
the  constitution.  There's  the  case  in  a  nutshell.  How's 
your  son  ?  " 

"  Sound  and  well !  "  replied  Sir  Austin.     "  And  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lipscombe's  always  the  same  !  "  Loi'd  Heddon  sighed 
peevishly.  "  He's  quiet — that's  one  good  thing ;  but  there's 
no  getting  the  country  to  take  him,  so  I  must  give  up  hopes 
of  that." 

Lord  Lipscombe  entering  the  room  just  then,  Sir  Austin 
surveyed  him,  and  was  not  astonished  at  the  refusal  of  the 
country  to  take  him. 

"  Wild  oats  !  wild  oats !  "  again  thinks  the  baronet,  as 
he  contemplates  the  headless,  degenerate,  weedy  issue  and 
result. 

Both  Darley  Absworthy  and  Lord  Heddon  spoke  of  the 
marriage  of  their  offspring  as  a  matter  of  course.  "  And  if 
I  were  not  a  coward,"  Sir  Austin  confessed  to  himself,  "I 
should  stand  forth  and  forbid  the  banns  !  This  universal 
iirnorance  of  the  inevitable  consequence  of  sin  is  frightful ! 
The  wild  oats  plea  is  a  torpedo  that  seems  to  have  struck  the 


THE  WILD  OATS  PLEA.  123 

world,  and  rendered  it  morally  insensible."  However,  tliey 
silenced  liim.  He  was  obliged  to  spare  their  feeling-s  on  a 
subject  to  him  so  deeply  sacred.  The  healthful  image  of  his 
noble  boy  rose  before  him,  a  triumphant  living  rejoinder  to 
any  hostile  argument. 

He  was  content  to  remark  to  his  doctor,  that  he  thought 
the  third  generation  of  wild  oats  would  be  a  pretty  thin 
ci'op  ! 

Families  against  whom  neither  Thompson  lawyer  nor 
Bairam  physician  could  recollect  a  progenitorial  blot,  either 
on  the  male  or  female  side,  were  not  numerous.  "  Only," 
said  the  doctor,  "  you  really  must  not  be  too  exacting  in 
these  days,  my  dear  Sir  Austin.  It  is  impossible  to  contest 
your  principle,  and  you  are  doing  mankind  incalculable  ser- 
vice in  calling  its  attention  to  this  the  gravest  of  its  duties : 
but  as  the  stream  of  civilization  progresses  we  must  be  a 
little  taken  in  the  lump,  as  it  were.  The  world  is,  I  can 
assure  you — and  I  do  not  look  only  above  the  surface,  you  can 
b'dieve— the  world  is  awakening  to  the  vital  importance  of 
the  question." 

"  Doctor,"  replied  Sir  Austin,  "  if  you  had  a  pure-blood 
Arab  barb  would  you  cross  him  with  a  screw  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Then  permit  me  to  say,  I  shall  employ  every  care  to 
match  my  son  according  to  his  merits,"  Sir  Austin  retui-nod. 
"I  trust  the  world  is  awakening,  as  you  observe.  I  have 
been  to  my  publisher,  since  my  arrival  in  town,  with  a 
manuscript  '  Proposal  for  a  New  System  of  Education  of  our 
British  Youth,'  which  may  come  in  opportunely.  I  thi  ik 
I  am  entitled  to  speak  on  that  subject." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Tou  will  admit.  Sir 
Austin,  tliat,  compared  with  continental  nations — our  neigh- 
bours, for  instance  — we  shine  to  advantage,  in  morals,  as  in 
everything  else.     I  hope  you  admit  that  ?  " 

"  I  find  no  consolation  in  shining  by  comparison  with  a 
lower  standard,"  said  the  baronet.  "  If  I  compare  the 
enlightenment  of  your  views — for  you  admit  my  principle — 
with  the  obstinate  incredulity  of  a  country  doctor's,  who  sees 
nothing  of  the  world,  you  are  hardly  flattered,  I  presume  ?  " 

Doctor  Bairam  would  hardly  be  flattered  at  such  a  com- 
parison, assuredly,  he  interjected. 

"Besides,"    added    the    baronet,    "the    French    make   no 


124  THE  OPiDEAL  OF  TnCIIArj)  FKVKUEL. 

prott-ncos,  and  thereby  escape  one  of  the  main  penalties  of 
liypoi'iisy.  Whereas  we! — but  I  am  not  their  advoctatc, 
credit  nio.  It  is  better,  perliaps,  to  pay  our  homag'e  to  virtue. 
At  least  it.  delays  the  sjiroad  of  entire  corruptness." 

Doctor  Bairani  wished  the  baronet  success,  and  dilij^ently 
endeavoured  to  assist  his  search  for  a  mate  worthy  of  the 
pure-blood  barb,  by  putting  several  mamas,  whom  lie  visited, 
on  the  alert. 


CnAPTER  XIX. 

A  SHADOWY  VIEW  OF  COiLEBS  PATEK  GOING  ABOUT  WITH  A 
GLASS  SLIPPER. 

One  of  these  mamas  favoured  by  Doctor  Benjamin  Bairam 
was  Mrs.  Caroline  Gi-andison,  said  to  be  a  legitimate  descen- 
dant of  the  great  Sir  Charles :  a  lady  who,  in  propi'iety  of 
demeanour  and  pious  manners,  was  the  petticoated  image  of 
her  admirable  ancestor.  The  clean-linen  of  her  morality  was 
spotless  as  his.  As  nearly  she  neighboured  perfection,  and 
knew  it  as  well.  Let  us  hope  that  her  history  will  some  day 
be  written,  and  the  balance  restored  in  literature  which  it 
was  her  pride  to  have  established  for  her  sex  in  life. 

Mrs.  Caroline  was  a  colourless  lady  of  an  unequivocal 
character,  living  upon  drugs,  and  governing  her  husband 
and  the  world  from  her  sofa.  Woolly  Negroes  blest  her 
name,  and  whiskered  John-Thomases  deplored  her  weight. 
The  world  was  given  to  understand  that  sorrows  and  disap- 
pointments had  reduced  her  to  the  contemplative  posture 
which  helped  her  to  consider  the  ui'gent  claims  of  her  black 
fellow-creatures  and  require  the  stalwart  services  of  her 
white.  In  her  presence  the  elect  had  to  feel  how  very  much 
virtue  is  its  own  reward ;  for,  if  tliey  did  not  rightly  esteem 
the  honour  she  did  them,  they  had  little  further  encourage- 
ment from  ^Irs.  Caroline  Grandison.  On  the  other  hand  her 
rigour  toward  vice  was  unsparing  ;  especially  in  the  person 
of  on/)  of  her  own  sex,  whom  she  treated  as  heavon  treats 
fallen  angels.  A  sinful  man — why,  Mrs.  Caroline  expected 
nothing  b(;tter:  but  a  sinful  woman — Oh!  that  was  a 
Bcaudul,  a  shame  !     And  you  met  no  sinful  woman  at  Mra< 


A  SHADOWY  VinW  OF  CCELEBS  PATEK.  125 

Caroline  Grandison's  parties.  As  a  consequence,  possibly, 
though  one  hardly  dares  suppose  it,  her  parties  were  the 
dullest  in  London,  and  gradually  fell  into  the  hands  of 
popular  preachers,  specific  doctors,  raw  missionaries  with 
their  passage  paid  for,  and  a  chance  dean  or  so ;  a  non- 
dancing,  stout-dining  congregation,  in  the  midst  of  which  a 
gay  young  guardsman  was  dismally  out  of  his  element,  and 
certainly  would  not  have  obtruded  his  unsodden  spirit  had 
tliere  been  no  fair  daughters. 

The  completeness  of  the  lady's  reputation  was  rounded  by 
the  whispers  of  envious  tongues ;  which,  admitting  the 
inviolability  of  her  character,  remarked  that  indeed  she  was 
a  little  too  careful  to  appear  different  from  others,  and  took 
an  ascetic  delight  in  the  contrast.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
she  took  a  great  deal  of  medicine.  Dr.  Baii-am  may  have 
contributed  toward  her  asceticism  somewhat.  The  worthy 
doctor  may  even,  perhaps,  have  contributed  a  trifle  to  her 
perfection. 

Tn  her  sweet  youth  this  lady  fell  violently  in  love  with  the 
great  Sir  Charles,  and  married  him  in  fancy.  The  time 
coming,  when  maiden  fancy  must  give  way  to  woman  fact, 
she  compromised  her  reverent  passion  for  the  hero  by 
declaring  that  she  would  never  change  the  name  he  had 
honoured  her  with,  and  must,  if  she  espoused  any  mortal, 
give  her  widowed  hand  to  a  Grandison.  Accordingly  two 
cousins  were  proposed  to  her ;  but  the  moral  reputation  of 
these  Grandisons  was  so  dreadful,  and  such  a  disgrace  to  the 
noble  name  they  bore,  that  she  rejected  them  with  horror. 
Woman's  mission,  however,  being  her  perpetual  precept,  she 
felt  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  bound  to  put  it  in  practice, 
and,  as  she  was  handsome,  and  most  handsomely-endowed, 
a  quite  unobjectionable  gentleman  was  discovered,  who,  for 
the  honour  of  assisting  her  in  her  mission,  agreed  to  dis- 
embody himself  in  her  great  name,  and  be  lost  in  the  blaze 
of  Sir  Charles.  With  his  concui-rence  she  rapidly  produced 
eight  daughters.  A  son  was  denied  to  her.  This  was  the 
second  generation  of  Grandisons  denied  a  son.  Her  husband, 
the  quite  unobjectionable  gentleman,  lost  heart  after  the 
arrival  of  the  eighth,  and  surrendered  his  mind  to  more 
frivolous  pursuits.  She  also  appeared  to  lose  heart;  it  was 
her  saintly  dream  to  have  a  Charles.  So  assui'cd  she  was 
that  he  was  coming  at  last  that  she  prepared  male  baby- 


120  TIIK  OKDF.AL  OF  mCIIAKn  FEVEREL, 

liTicn  witli  her  own  hands  for  the  disappointinpf  eicrlitli. 
When,  in  that  moment  of  creative  suspense,  Dr.  Haii-ira'B 
poft  voiee,  with  sacred  mchancholj,  pronounced,  "  A  daufjhter, 
madam !  "  Mrs.  Caiolinc  Grandison  covered  her  face,  and 
wept.  She  afterwards  did  penance  for  her  want  of  resigna- 
tion, and  relapsed  upon  religion  and  little  dogs. 

Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison  appeared  to  lose  heart.  But 
people  said  she  was  not  really  solaced  by  religion  and  little 
dogs.  People  said,  that  her  repeated  consultations  with  Dr. 
Bairam  had  one  end  in  view,  and  that  all  those  quantities  of 
medicine  were  consumed  for  a  devout  purpose.  Eight  is  not 
a  number  to  stop  at.  Nine  if  you  like,  but  not  eight.  No 
one  thinks  of  stopping  at  eight.  People  said  that  the  per- 
tinacity of  her  spirit  weakened  her  mind,  and  that  she  con- 
sulted cards  and  fortune-"telle~.'3,  and  cast  horoscopes,  to 
discover  if  there  would  bo  a  ninth,  and  that  ninth  a  Charles. 
They  might  truly  have  said,  that  the  potency  of  Dr.  Bairam'3 
prescriptions  weakened  the  constitution.  Mrs.  Caroline 
Grandison  grew  fretful,  and  reclined  on  an  invalid  couch, 
while  her  name  hunted  foxes. 

The  disappointing  eighth  was  on  the  verge  of  her  teens 
when  Sir  Austin  visited  town.  None  of  Mrs.  Caroline  Gran- 
dison's  daughters  had  married  :  owing,  it  was  rumoured, 
to  the  degeneracy  of  the  males  of  our  day.  The  elder  ones 
had,  in  their  ignorance,  wished  to  marry  young  gentlemen 
of  their  choosing.  Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison  bade  them  wait 
till  she  could  find  for  them  something  like  Sir  Charles :  she 
was  aware  that  such  a  man  would  hardly  be  found  alive 
again.  If  they  rebelled,  as  model  young  ladies  occasionally 
will,  Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison  declared  that  they  were  ill, 
and  called  in  Dr.  Bairam  to  prescribe,  who  soon  reduced 
them.  Physic  is  an  immense  ally  iu  bringing  about  filial 
obedience. 

No  lady  living  was  better  fitted  to  appreciate  Sir  Austin, 
and  understand  his  System,  than  Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison. 
When  she  heard  of  it  from  Dr.  Bairam,  she  rose  from  her 
couch  and  called  for  her  carriage,  determined  to  follow  him 
np  and  come  to  terms  with  him.  All  that  was  told  her  of 
the  baronet  conspired  to  make  her  believe  he  was  Sir  Charles 
m  person  fallen  upon  evil  times:  the  spirit  of  Sir  Charles 
re%'ived  to  mix  his  blood  with  hers  and  produce  a  i^ce  of 
moral  Paladins  after  Sir  Charles's  pattern.     She  reviewed 


A  SHADOWY  VIEW  OF  CCELEBS  PATER.  127 

ter  daughters.  Any  one  of  the  three  yoiinger  ones  would  be  a 
suitable  match,  and,  if  he  wanted  perfectly  edncaied  young 
women,  where  else  could  he  look  for  them  ?  But  he  was 
difficult  to  hunt  down.  He  went  abroad  shyly.  He  was 
never  to  be  met  in  general  society.  The  rumour  of  him  was 
everywhere,  and  an  extremely  unfavourable  i-umour  it  was, 
from  mothers  who  had  daughters,  and  hopes  for  their 
daughters,  which  a  few  questions  of  his  had  kindled,  and  a 
discovery  of  his  severe  requisitions  extinguished.  It  ap- 
peared that  he  had  seen  numerous  young  ladies.  He  had 
politely  asked  them  to  sit  down  and  take  off  their  shoes ;  but 
such  monstrous  feet  they  had  mostly  that  he  declined  the 
attempt  to  try  on  the  Glass  Slipper,  and  politely  departed ; 
or  tried  it  on,  and  with  a  resigned  sad  look  declared  that  it 
would  not,  would  not  fit  ! 

Some  of  the  young  ladies  had  been  to  schools.  Their  feet 
were  all  enormously  too  big,  and  there  was  no  need  for  them 
to  take  off  their  shoes.  Some  had  been  very  properly  edu- 
cated  at  home  ;  and  to  such,  if  Bairam  physician  and 
Thompson  lawyer  did  not  protest,  the  Slipper  was  applied  ; 
but  by  occult  ai'ts  of  its  own  it  seemed  to  find  out  that  their 
habits  were  somehow  bad,  and  incapacitated  them  from 
espousing  the  Fairy  Prince.  The  Slipper  would  not  fit 
at  all. 

Unsuspecting  damsels  were  asked  at  what  time  they  rose 
in  the  morning,  and  would  reply,  at  any  hour.  Some  said, 
they  finished  in  the  moi-ning  the  romance  they  had  relin- 
quished to  sleep  overnight,  little  considering  how  such  a 
practice  made  the  feet  swell.  One  of  them  thought  it  a  fine 
thing  to  tell  him  she  took  Metastasio  to  bed  with  her  and 
pencilled  translations  of  him  when  she  awoke. 

There  was  a  damsel  closer  home  who  did  not  take  Metas- 
tasio  to  bed  with  her,  and  who  ate  dewberries  early  in  tlio 
morning,  whose  foot,  had  Sir  Austin  but  known  it,  wouUJ 
have  fitted  into  the  inti-actable  Slipper  as  easily  and  neatly 
as  if  it  had  been  a  soft  kid  glove  made  to  lier  measure. 
Alas  !  the  envious  sisters  were  keeping  poor  Cinderella  out 
of  sight.  Dewberries  still  al)ounded  by  the  banks  of  the 
river;  and  thither  she  strolled,  and  there  daily  she  was  met 
by  one  who  had  the  test  of  her  merits  in  his  bosom  :  and 
there,  on  the  night  the  scientific  humanist  conceived  he  hul 


128  THK  OIIDEAL  OF  rwICIIARn  FKVnKF.L. 

aliii'htcd  on  the  identical  house  which  held  the  foot  to  fit  the 
lSli|)|>er,  thcro  under  consultinj^  sturs,  holy  for  evermore 
henceforth,  the  Fairy  Prince,  trembling  and  with  teors,  has 
biken  from  her  lips  the  iirst  ripe  fruit  of  love,  and  pledged 
himself  hers. 

A  night  of  happy  angnry  to  Father  and  Son.  They  tyere 
looking  out  foi'  the  same  thing  ;  only  one  employed  science, 
the  other  instinct ;  and  which  hit  upon  the  right  it  was  for 
time  to  decide.  Sir  Austin  dined  with  Mrs.  Caroline  (Jran- 
dison.     They  had  been  introduced  by  Sir  Miles  Pap  worth. 

"  What  !  "  said  Sir  Miles,  when  Mrs.  Caroline  expressed 
her  wish  for  an  introduction,  "  you  want  to  know  Feverel  ? 
Aha  !  Why,  you  are  the  very  woman  for  him,  ma'am.  It's 
one  of  the  strong-minded  he's  after.  So  you  shall,  so  you 
shall.  I'll  give  a  dinner  to-morrow.  •  And  let  me  tell  you  in 
confidence  that  the  value  of  his  mines  is  increasing,  ma'am. 
You  needn't  be  afraid  about  his  crotchets.  Feverel  has  his 
eye  on  the  main  chance  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us." 

"  You  do  not  believe,  Sir  Miles,  that  one  may  esteem  him 
for  his  principles  and  sympathize  with  his  object  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Caroline. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  Sir  Mile?  returned,  "  I'm  a  plain  man.  1 
said  to  my  wife  the  other  day — she  was  talking  something 
in  that  way — and  I  said  to  her,  If  Feverel  had  five  hundred, 
instead  of  fifty  thousand,  a-year — he's  got  that  clear,  ma'am, 
and  it'll  double — how  about  his  princijdes  then?  Aha!  A 
rich  man  can  ])lay  the  fool  if  he  likes,  and  you  women  clap 
your  hands,  and  cheer  him.  Now,  if  I  were  to  have  a  System 
for  all  my  rascals,  you'd  call  me  something  like  what  I 
should  be — eh  ?  You  would,  though  !  And  I  wish  I  had 
sometimes,  for  they're  every  one  of  'em  in  scrapes,  and  I've 
got  to  pay  the  piper.  But  that's  yiart  of  their  education,  to 
my  mind,  so  down  goes  the  money." 

"  Have  you  seen  much  of  his  son  ?  "  ^Irs.  Caroline  in- 
quired, restraining  an  appearance  of  particular  interest. 

"  Not  much,  ma'am  ;  not  much.  Aha  !  I  expect  it's  the 
mothers  '11  be  asking  about  his  son.  and  the  daughters 
about  mine — eh  ?  "  Sir  Miles  indulged  in  a  stout  laugh. 

"  He's  a  fine  lad.  I'll  say  that  for  him,  ma'am.  He'll  go 
a  long  way  when  he's  once  loose,  that  lad  will.  I  came  to 
near  the  other  day  that  I  was  pretty  near  transporting  hira 
once,  the  young  villain  f  ** 


A  SHADOWY  VIEW  OF  CCKLEBS  PATER.  129 

Sir  Miles  told  Mrs.  Caroline  certain  facts  that  had  gradu- 
ally become  public  intelligence  about  his  neighbourhood 
concerning  the  Bakewell  Comedy. 

Mrs.  Caroline  threw  her  hands  aloft. 

"  Have  I  frightened  you  a  bit,  ma'am?"  said  twinkling 
Sir  Miles  ;  but  the  perverse  woman,  with  the  downfall  of 
her  hands,  checked  his  exultation  by  exclaiming:  "Is  it  not 
a  proof  of  his  father's  wisdom  to  watch  him  so  rigorously  !  " 

Next  day,  at  Sir  Miles  Papworth's  hastily-ordered  dinner, 
Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison,  who  had  summoned  her  great 
dormant  energies  successfully  to  stand  upon  her  feet,  was 
handed  down  by  Sir  Austin.  They  sat  together,  and  talked 
together. 

Sir  Austin  and  Mrs.  Caroline  discovered  that  they  had  in 
common  from  an  early  period  looked  on  life  as  a  science : 
and,  having  arrived  at  this  joint  understanding,  they,  with 
the  indifference  of  practised  dissectors,  laid  out  the  world 
and  applied  the  knife  to  the  people  they  knew.  In  other 
words,  they  talked  most  frightful  scandal.  It  is  proverbial 
what  a  cold  torturer  science  can  be.  Malice  is  nothing  to  it. 
They  reviewed  their  friends,  l^are  blood  was  nowhere.  Sir 
Austin  hinted  his  observations  since  his  arrival  in  town,  and 
used  a  remark  or  two  from  Bairam  and  Thompson.  Mrs. 
Caroline  cleverly  guessed  the  families,  and  still  further 
opened  his  eyes.  Together  they  quashed  the  wild-oats 
special  plea.  Mrs.  Caroline  gave  him  a  clearer  idea  of  his 
Bvstem  than  he  had  ever  had  before.  She  ran  ahead  of  his 
thoughts  like  nimble  fire.  She  appeared  to  have  forethought 
them  all,  and  taken  a  leap  beyond.  When  he  plodded  and 
hesitated  on  his  conception,  she,  at  a  word,  struck  boldly 
into  black  and  white,  making  him  fidget  for  his  Note-book 
to  reverse  a  sentence  or  two  on  Woman.  And  she  quoted 
The  PrLGRiM's  Scrip. 

"  How  true  are  some  of  the  things  you  say,  Sir  Austin  ! 
And  how  false,  permit  me  to  add,  are  others  !  "  she  depre- 
catingly  remarked.  "  That,  for  instance,  on  Domestic 
I)iff(;i-enccs.  How  could  you  be  so  cynical  as  to  say,  '  In  a 
dissension  between  nnan  and  wife  that  one  is  in  the  right  who 
has  most  friends.'  It  really  angered  me.  Cannot  one  be 
absolutely  superior — notoi-iously  the  injui'cd  one  ?"  (Mrs, 
Caroline  was  citing  her  own  case  (igainst  the  faint-heaTtcd 
fox-linnting   Unobje(-tiona,blc. )       "  l>ut    you  amply    revengo 

K 


130  THE  ORDKAL  OF  lUCIIARD  FEVERKL. 

it.  You  say,  '  Great  Hopes  have  lean  nffsprinr}.'  How  trne 
that  is !  How  I  know  it  myself  !  How  truo  every  dis- 
appointed woman  nmst  know  it  to  be  !  Antl  what  you  say 
of  the  Instincts  and  the  Mind — something — that  our  Instincts 
seek  stability  here  below,  and  are  always  casting  anchor — 
Bomething — without  the  Captain's  consent — and  that  it  is 
at  once  the  fruitful  source  of  unhappiness  and  the  proof  of 
immortality — I'm  making  nonsense  of  it,  but  I  appreciated 
the  wisdom  fully." 

In  this  way  she  played  with  him.  The  theorist  waa 
dazzled,  delighted.  Lady  Blandish  was  too  like  a  submis- 
sive slave  to  the  System.  Mi-s.  Caroline  wedded  it  on  the 
equal  standing  of  an  English  wife,  who  gives  her  half  and 
more  to  the  union. 

Her  name  appeared  on  his  card-table  the  day  after  the 
dinner.  Six  of  her  eight  daughters,  and  a  sprinkling  of  her 
little  dogs,  were  ready  for  his  visit  by  the  afternoon  or 
fashionable  morning.  Charlotte  and  Harriet  were  absent. 
Clementina  was  the  elder  in  attendance,  and  the  rest  pre- 
sented faii'ly  decreasing  heights  down  to  the  disappointing 
last,  Carola,  called  as  near  Charles  as  was  permissible,  a 
right  I'uddy  young  woman  out  of  the  nursery. 

"  We  receive  you  into  the  family,"  the  fond  mother  leaned 
on  her  elbows  maternally  smiling,  to  welcome  her  visitor. 
"  I  wished  my  daughters  to  share  with  me  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance." 

"  And  knew  well,  madam,  how  to  gratify  me  most."  Sir 
Austin  bowed  to  the  ceremony  of  introduction,  and  took  a 
hand  of  each,  retaining  Carola's. 

"  This  is  your  youngest,  madam  ?" 

*'  Yes."     Mrs.  Caroline  suppressed  a  sigh. 

"  And  how  old  are  you,  my  dear  ?" 

Carola  twisted,  and  tried  to  read  the  frill  of  her  trousers, 
She  was  dressed  very  young. 

"My  child!"  her  mother  admonished  her.  "Whereat 
Carola  screwed  out  a  growl,  "  Thirteen." 

"  Thirteen  this  day,"  said  her  mother. 

"Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  my  dear."  Sir  Austin 
bent  forward,  and  put  his  lips  to  her  forehead. 

Carola  received  the  salute  with  the  stolidity  of  a  naughty 
doll. 

"She  is  not  well  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Caroline.     "  She  is 


A  SHADOWY  VIEW  OF  CfELEBS  PATEE.  131 

nsually  full  of  life  and  gaiety — almost  too  mucli  of  an  animal, 
1  sometimes  think." 

"  At  her  age  she  can  scarcely  be  that,"  observed  Sir 
Austin. 

"  She's  the  maddest  creature  I  ever  knew."  Mrs.  Caroline 
immediately  went  upon  his  tack  with  unction.  "  To-day 
she  is  shy.  She  is  not  herself.  Possibly  something  has  dis- 
agreed with  her." 

"  That  nasty  medicine,  it  is,  mama,"  mumbled  wilful 
Carola,  swinging  her  frock. 

Sir  Austin  turned  to  Mrs.  Caroline,  and  inquired  anxiously 
if  the  child  took  much  medicine. 

"  The  smallest  occasional  doses,"  Mrs.  Caroline  remarked, 
to  an  accompaniment  of  inter] ectory  eyebrows  and  chins 
from  all  her  younger  daughters,  and  a  reserved  demure 
aspect  of  the  elder  ones. 

"I  do  not  like  much  medicine  for  children,"  said  the 
baronet,  a  little  snappishly. 

"Only  the  smallest  occasional  doses!"  Mrs.  Caroline 
repeated,  making  her  voice  small  and  the  doses  sound 
Bwect. 

"My  son  has  had  little,  or  nothing,"  said  the  baronet. 

The  young  ladies  looked  on  the  father  of  that  son  with 
interest. 

"  Will  you  come  and  see  our  gymnasium  ?"  Mrs.  Caroline 
asked  quickly. 

"  It  is,"  she  added,  rising  with  heroic  effort,  "not  to  be 
compared  to  our  country  one.  But  it  is  of  excellent  use, 
and  all  my  girls  exercise  in  it,  when  in  town,  once  a  day, 
without  intermission.  My  principle  is,  that  girls  require  a 
development  of  their  frames  as  well  as  boys ;  and  the  nioi'e 
muscle  they  have  the  better  women  they  make.  I  used  it 
constantly  till  disappointment  and  sorrow  broke  the  habit." 

"  On  my  honour,  madam,"  said  the  eni'aptured  baronet, 
"you  are  the  only  sensible  woman  I  have  met,"  and  he 
offered  his  arm  to  conduct  the  strenuous  invalid. 

DaughterH  and  little  dogs  trooped  to  the  gymnasium,  which 
was  fitted  up  in  the  court  below,  and  contained  swing-poles, 
and  stride-poles,  and  newly  invented  instruments  foi-  bringing 
out  special  virtues:  an  instrument  for  the  lungs:  an  instru- 
ment  for  the  liver;  one  for  the  arms  and  tliiglis  ;  one  for  tlio 
wi'ists ;  the  whole  for  the  promotion  of  the  Christian  accom. 
jiHshinonis. 

K   'I 


132  THE  ORDKAL  OF  TUCnARD  FRVEREL. 

Owing,  probably,  to  the  exbaustion  consequent  on  their 
previous  exercises  of  the  inoiiiing,  tlie  young  hulies,  except- 
ing Carohi,  looked  fatigued  and  pale,  and  anything  but  well- 
braced  ;  and  for  the  same  reason,  doubtless,  when  the  younger 
ones  were  requested  by  their  mother  to  exliibit  the  use  of 
the  several  instruments,  each  of  them  wearily  took  hold  of 
the  depending  stnxp  of  leather,  and  wearily  pulled  it,  like 
mariners  oaring  in  the  deep  sea ;  oaring  to  a  haven  they  have 
no  faith  in. 

"  I  sometimes  hear  them,"  said  their  mama,  "  while  I  am 
reclining  above,  singing  in  chorus.  '  Row,  brothers,  row,'  is 
one  of  their  songs.     It  sounds  pretty  and  cheerful." 

The  baronet  was  too  much  wrapped  up  in  the  enlighten- 
ment of  her  principle  to  notice  the  despondency  of  their 
countenances. 

'•  We  have  a  professor  of  gymnastics,  who  comes  twice  a 
week  to  superintend,"  said  Mrs.  Caroline. 

"  How  old  did  you  say  your  daughter  is,  madam  ?  "  the 
baronet  abruptly  interrogated  her. 

"Which  ? — Oh  !  "  she  followed  his  eye  and  saw  it  resting 
on  ruddy  Carola,  "  thirteen.  She  this  day  completes  her 
thirteenth  year.  That  will  do, dears;  much  of  it  is  not  good 
after  your  dinners.'' 

The  baronet  placidly  nodded  approval  of  all  her  directions, 
and  bestowed  a  second  paternal  kiss  upon  Carola. 

"  They  talk  of  the  Future  Man,  madam,"  he  said.  "  1 
seem  to  be  in  the  house  of  the  Future  Woman." 

"  Happy  you  that  have  a  son  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Caroline, 
and,  returning  to  the  drawing-room,  they  exchanged  Systems 
anew,  as  a  preparatory  betrothal  of  the  subjects  of  the 
Systems, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  DIVERSION  PLATED  OX  A  PEXXT- WHISTLE. 

Away  with  Systems  !    Awp.y  with  a  corrupt  World  !    Let 
OS  breathe  the  air  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

Golden   lie  the  meadows  :    golden  run    the  streams ;  red 


A  DIVERSION  ON  A  FENNY- WHISTLE.  133 

gold  is  on  tlie  pine-stems.     The  sun  is  coming  down  to  earth 
and  walks  the  fields  and  the  waters. 

The  sun  is  coming  down  to  earth,  and  the  fields  and  the 
■waters  shout  to  him  golden  shouts.  He  comes,  and  his 
heralds  run  before  him,  and  touch  the  leaves  of  oaks  and 
planes  and  beeches  lucid  green,  and  the  pine-stems  redder 
gold ;  leaving  brightest  footprints  upon  thickly-weeded  banks, 
where  the  foxglove's  last  upper-bells  incline,  and  bramble- 
ehoots  wander  amid  moist  rich  herbage.  The  plumes  of  the 
woodland  are  alight ;  and  beyond  them,  over  the  open,  'tis  a 
race  with  the  long-thrown  shadows  ;  a  race  across  the  heaths 
and  up  the  hills,  till,  at  the  farthest  bourne  of  mounted 
eastern  cloud,  the  heralds  of  the  sun  lay  rosy  fingers,  and 
rest. 

Sweet  ai-e  the  shy  recesses  of  the  woodland.  The  ray 
treads  softly  there.  A  film  athwart  the  pathway  quivers 
many-hued  against  purple  shade  fragrant  with  warm  pines, 
deep  moss-beds,  feathery  ferns.  The  little  brown  squirrel 
drops  tail,  and  leaps  ;  the  inmost  bird  is  startled  to  a  chance 
tuneless  note.     From  silence  into  silence  things  move. 

Peeps  of  the  revelling  splendour  above  and  around  enliven 
the  conscious  full  heart  within.  Theflaming  West,  the  crim- 
son heights,  shower  their  glories  through  voluminous  leafage. 
But  these  are  bowers  where  deej)  bliss  dwells,  imperial  joy, 
that  owes  no  fealty  to  yonder  glories,  in  which  the  young 
lamb  gambols  and  the  spirits  of  men  are  glad.  Descend, 
great  Radiance  !  embrace  creation  with  beneficent  fire,  and 
pass  from  us  !  You  and  the  vice-regal  light  that  succeeds  to 
you,  and  all  heavenly  pageants,  are  the  ministers  and  the 
slaves  of  the  throbbing  content  within. 

For  this  is  the  home  of  the  enchantment.  Here,  secluded 
from  vexed  shores,  the  prince  and  princess  of  the  island 
meet:  here  like  dai-kling  nightingales  they  sit,  and  into  eyes 
and  ears  and  hands  pour  endless  ever-fresh  treasures  of  their 
souls. 

Roll  on,  grinding  wheels  of  the  world:  cries  of  ships 
going  down  in  a  calm,  groans  of  a  System  which  will  not 
know  its  rightful  hour  of  exultation,  complain  to  the 
universe.     You  are  not  heard  here. 

He  calls  her  by  her  name,  Lucy:  and  she,  blushing  at  her 
great  boldness,  has  called  him  by  nis,  Richai-d.  Those  two 
names  are  the  key-notes  of  the  wonderful  harmonies  the 
angels  sing  aloft. 


134  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHATID  FEVEREL, 

"  Lucy  !  my  beloved  !  " 

♦'  O  liichard  !  " 

Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts  of  tho  Avoodland,  a 
Blieep-boy  pipes  to  meditative  eve  on  a  penny-whistle. 

Love's  musical  instrument  is  as  old,  and  as  poor :  it  has 
but  two  stops ;  and  yet,  you  see,  the  cunning  musician  dues 
thus  much  with  it ! 

Other  speech  they  have  little ;  light  foam  playing  upon 
waves  of  feeling,  and  of  feeling  compact,  that  bursts  only 
when  tho  sweeping  volume  is  too  wild,  and  is  no  more  than 
their  sigh  of  tenderness  spoken. 

Perhaps  love  played  his  tune  so  well  because  their  natures 
had  unblunted  edges,  and  were  keen  for  bliss,  confiding  in  it 
as  natui-al  food.  To  gentlemen  and  ladies  he  fine-draws 
upon  the  viol,  ravishingly;  or  blows  into  the  mellow 
bassoon  ;  or  rouses  the  heroic  ardours  of  the  trumpet ;  or,  it 
may  be,  commands  the  whole  Orchestra  for  thera.  And  they 
are  pleased.  He  is  still  the  cunning  musician.  They 
languish,  and  taste  ecstasy :  but  it  is,  however  sonorous,  an 
earthly  concert.  For  them  the  spheres  move  not  to  two 
notes.  They  have  lost,  or  foi-feitcd  and  never  known,  the 
first  snpersensual  spring  of  the  ripe  senses  into  passion  ; 
"when  they  carry  the  soul  with  them,  and  have  the  privileges 
of  spirits  to  walk  disembodied,  boundlessly  to  feel.  Or  one 
has  it,  and  the  other  is  a  dead  body  Ambrosia  let  them 
eat,  and  drink  the  nectar:  here  sit  a  couple  to  whom  Love's 
simple  bread  and  water  is  a  finer  feast. 

Pipe,  happy  sheep-boy.  Love  !  Irradiated  angels,  unfold 
your  wings  and  lift  your  voices  ! 

They  have  outfiown  philosophy.  Their  instinct  has  shot 
beyond  the  ken  of  science.     They  were  made  for  their  Eden. 

"  And  this  divine  gift  was  in  store  for  me  !  " 

So  runs  the  internal  outcry  of  each,  clasping  each :  it  is 
their  recurring  refrain  to  the  harmonies.  How  it  illumined 
the  years  gone  by  and  suffused  the  living  Future  ! 

"  You  for  me :  I  for  you  !  " 

*'  We  are  bom  for  each  other  !  " 

They  believe  that  the  angels  have  been  busy  about  thera 
from  their  cradles.  The  celestial  hosts  have  worthily 
Bti'iven  to  bring  them  together.  And,  0  victory  !  O  wonder! 
after  toil  and  pain,  and  difficulties  exceeding,  the  celestial 
hosts  have  succeeded  ! 


A  DIVERSION  ON  A  PENNY- WHISTLE.  135 

"  Here  we  two  sit  who  are  written  above  as  one  !  ** 

Pipe,  liappy  Love  !  pipe  on  to  these  dear  innocents  ! 

The  tide  of  colour  has  ebbed  from  the  upper  sky.  In  the 
West  the  sea  of  sunken  fire  draws  back ;  and  the  stars  leap 
forth,  and  tremble,  and  retire  before  the  advancing  moon, 
who  slij^s  the  silver  train  of  cloud  from,  her  shoulders,  and, 
with  her  foot  upon  the  pine-tops,  surveys  heaven. 

"  Lucy,  did  you  never  dream  of  meeting  me  ?  " 

"  O  Richard  !  yes  ;  for  I  remembered  you." 

*'  Lucy  !  and  did  you  pray  that  we  might  meet  ?  " 

"  I  did  !  " 

Young  as  when  she  looked  upon  the  lovers  in  Paradise, 
the  fair  Immortal  journeys  onward.  Fronting  her,  it  is  not 
night  but  veiled  day.  Full  half  the  sky  is  flushed.  Not 
darkness  :  not  day;  but  the  nuptials  of  the  two. 

"  My  own  !  my  own  for  ever  !  Tou  are  pledged  to  me  ? 
Whisper  !  " 

He  hears  the  delicious  music. 

"  And  you  are  mine  ?  " 

A  soft  beam  travels  to  the  fern-covert  under  the  pine-wood 
where  they  sit,  and  for  answer  he  has  her  eyes  :  turned  to 
him  an  instant,  timidly  fluttering  over  the  depths  of  his,  and 
then  downcast ;  for  through  her  eyes  her  soul  is  naked 
to  him. 

"  Lucy  !  my  bride  !  my  life  !  " 

The  night-jar  spins  his  dark  monotony  on  the  branch  of 
the  pine.  The  soft  beam  travels  round  them,  and  listens  to 
their  hearts.     Their  lips  are  locked. 

Pipe  no  more,  Love,  for  a  time  !  Pipe  as  you  will  you 
cannot  express  their  first  kiss  ;  nothing  of  its  sweetness,  and 
of  the  sacredness  of  it  nothing.  St.  Cecilia  up  aloft,  before 
the  silver  organ-pipes  of  Paradise,  pressing  fingers  upon 
all  the  notes  of  which  Love  is  but  one,  from  her  you  may 
hear  it. 

So  Love  is  silent.  Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts  of 
the  woodland,  the  self-satisfied  sheep-boy  delivers  a  last  com- 
placent squint  down  the  length  of  his  penny-whistle,  and, 
with  a  flourish  correspondingly  awry,  he  also  marches  into 
silence,  hailed  by  supper.  The  woods  arc  still.  There  is 
heard  but  the  night-jar  spinning  on  the  pine-branch,  circled 
by  moonlight. 


136  THE  OIJDEAL  OF  KICIIAKD  FEVEREL. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

CELEBRATES   THK   llMK-IiONOURED   TREATMENT   OF   A   DRAGON   BT 
TUE    lIliRO. 

Enchanted  Islands  have  not  yet  rooted  out  their  old  bmr  d 
of  dragons.  Wherever  there  is  romance,  these  monst(  rs 
come  by  inimical  attraction.  Because  the  heavens  are  cer- 
tainly propitious  to  true  lovers,  the  beasts  of  the  abysses  are 
banded  to  destroy  them,  stimulated  by  innumerable  sad 
victories ;  and  every  love-tale  is  an  Epic  War  of  the  upper 
and  lower  powers.  I  wish  good  fairies  were  a  little  more 
active.  They  seem  to  be  cajoled  into  security  by  the  happi- 
ness of  their  favourities ;  whereas  the  wicked  are  always 
alert,  and  circumspect.  They  let  the  little  ones  shut  their 
eyes  to  fancy  they  are  not  seen,  and  then  commence. 

These  appointments  and  meetings,  involving  a  start  from 
the  dinner- table  at  the  hour  of  contemplative  digestion  and 
prime  claret ;  the  hour  when  the  wise  youths  Adrian  delighted 
to  talk  at  his  ease — to  recline  in  dreamy  consciousness  that  a 
work  of  good  was  going  on  inside  him  ;  these  abstractions 
from  his  studies,  excesses  of  gaiety,  and  glumness,  heavings 
of  the  chest,  and  other  odd  signs,  but  mainly  the  disgusting 
behaviour  of  his  pupil  at  the  dinner-table,  tauglit  Adrian  to 
understand,  though  the  young  gentleman  was  clever  in 
excuses,  that  he  had  somehow  learnt  there  was  another  half 
to  the  divided  Apple  of  Creation,  and  had  embarked  upon 
the  great  voyace  of  discovery  of  the  difference  between  the 
two  halves.  With  his  usual  coolness  Adrian  debated  whether 
he  might  be  in  the  philosophic  or  the  practical  stage  of  the 
voyage.  For  himself,  as  a  man  and  a  philosopher,  Adrian 
had  no  objection  to  its  being  either;  and  he  had  only  to 
consider  which  was  temporarily  most  threatening  to  the 
ridiculous  System  he  had  to  support.  Richard's  absence 
annoyed  him.  The  youth  was  vivacious,  arid  his  enthusiasm 
good  fun ;  and  besides,  when  he  left  table,  Adrian  had  to  sit 
alone  with  Hippias  and  the  Eighteenth  Century,  from  both 
of  whom  he  extracted  all  the  amusement  that  could  be  got, 
and  he  saw  his  digestion  menaced  by  the  contngious  society 
of  two  ruined  stomacdis,  who  bored  him  just  when  he  loved 
himself  most.     Poor  llippias  was  now  s  j  reduced  that  he  had 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DRAGON.  137 

profoundly  to  calculate  whether  a  particular  dish,  or  an 
extra-glass  of  wine,  would  have  a  bitter  effect  on  him  and  be 
felt  through  the  remainder  of  his  yeai'S.  He  was  in  the  hal>it 
of  uttering  his  calculations  half  aloud,  wherein  the  prophetic 
doubts  of  experience,  and  the  succulent  insinuations  of  appe- 
tite, contended  hotly.  It  was  horrible  to  hear  him,  so  let  us 
pardon  Adi'ian  for  tempting  him  to  a  decision  in  favour  of 
the  moment. 

"  Happy  to  take  wine  with  you,"  Adrian  would  say,  and 
Hippias  would  regard  the  decanter  with  a  pained  forehead, 
and  put  up  the  doctor. 

"  Drink,  nephew  Hippy,  and  think  of  the  doctor  to- 
morrow !  "  the  Eighteenth  Century  cheerily  ruffles  her  cap 
at  him,  and  recommends  her  own  practice. 

"  It's  this  liteiury  work  !  "  interjects  Hippias,  handling  his 
glass  of  remorse.  "  I  don't  know  what  else  it  can  be.  You 
have  no  idea  how  anxious  I  feel.  I  have  frightful  dreams. 
I'm  perpetually  anxious." 

"  No  wonder,"  says  Adrian,  who  enjoys  the  childish  stmpli- 
city  to  which  an  absorbed  study  of  his  sensational  existence 
has  brought  poor  Hippias.  "  No  wonder.  Ten  years  of 
Fairy  Mythology  !  Could  any  one  hope  to  sleep  in  peace 
after  that  ?  As  to  your  digestion,  no  one  has  a  digestion 
who  is  in  the  doctor's  hands.  They  prescribe  from  dogmas, 
and  don't  count  on  the  system.  They  have  cut  you  down 
from  two  bottles  to  two  glasses.  It's  absurd.  You  can't 
sleep,  because  your  system  is  crying  out  for  what  it's  accus- 
tomed to." 

Hippias  sips  his  Madeira  with  a  niggardly  confidence,  but 
assures  Adi-ian  that  he  i-cally  should  not  like  to  venture  on 
a  bottle  now  :  it  would  be  rank  madness  to  venture  on  a 
bottle  now,  he  thinks.  Last  night  only,  after  partaking, 
under  protest,  of  that  rich  French  dish,  or  Avas  it  the  duck  ? 
— Atlrian  advised  liim  to  throw  the  l)lame  on  that  vulgar 
bird. — Say  the  duck,  then.  Last  night,  ho  was  no  sooner 
stretched  in  bed,  than  he  seemed  to  be  of  an  enormous  size  : 
all  his  limbs — his  nose,  his  mouth,  his  toes — were  elephan- 
tine !  An  elephant  was  a  y)igmy  to  him.  And  his  hugeous- 
ness  seemed  to  increase  tlie  instant  he  shut  his  eyes.  He 
turned  on  this  side;;  he  tm-iiod  oti  that.  H(!  lay  0!i  liis  back; 
he  tried  putting  his  (ace  to  (ho  ])ill()W;  and  he  continued  to 
Bwell,     He  wondered  the  room  could  hold  Lim — he  thought 


138  THE  ORDFAT.  OF  RTCITARD  FKVErvEL. 

ho  ninst  Imrst  it — and  absolutely  lit  a  candle,  and  went  to 
the  looking-rrlass  to  see  whether  he  was  bearable. 

By  this  time  Adrian  and  Richard  were  laug'hing  uncon- 
troUably.  lie  had,  however,  a  genial  auditor  in  the  Eight- 
eenth Century,  who  declared  it  to  be  a  new  disease,  not 
known  in  her  day,  and  deserving  investigation.  She  was 
happy  to  compare  sensations  with  him,  but  hers  "were  not  of 
the  complex  order,  and  a  potion  soon  righted  her.  In  fact, 
her  system  appeared  to  be  a  debatable  ground  for  aliment 
and  medicine,  on  which  the  battle  was  fought,  and,  when 
over,  she  was  none  the  worse,  as  she  joyfully  told  Hippias. 
Never  looked  ploughman  on  prince,  or  village  belle  on  Coui-t 
Beauty,  with  half  the  envy  poor  nineteenth-century  Hippias 
expended  in  his  gaze  on  the  Eighteenth.  He  was  too  serious 
to  note  much  the  laughter  of  the  young  men. 

"  I  fancy,  uncle,  you  have  swallowed  a  fairy,"  says 
Richard.  "  You  know  what  malicious  things  they  are.  Is 
there  a  case  in  the  mythology  of  anybody  swallowing  a 
fairy  ?  " 

Hippias  grimly  considered,  and  thought  there  was  not. 

"  Upon  my  honour,"  Adrian  composes  his  fcatuies  to 
rem^ark,  "  I  think  Ricky  has  hit  the  right  nail.  You  have 
not  only  swallowed  one,  you  have  swallowed  the  whole 
mythology  !  I'm  not  astonished  you  suffer  so.  I  never 
could,  I  confess,  so  they  don't  trouble  me  ;  but,  if  I  had,  I 
should  pour  a  bottle  of  the  best  on  them  every  night.  I 
should  indeed." 

"  Can  my  uncle,"  Richard  meditates,  his  eyes  on  Hippias 's 
wizened  face,  "  ever  have  been,  as  my  father  says,  happy, 
and  like  other  men  ?     Was  he  ever  in  love  ?  " 

Alas,  and  alack-a-day  !  Yes  !  Love  had  once  piped  even 
to  Hippias  in  dewy  shade.  He  was  once  an  ardent  youth, 
the  genius  of  the  family,  master  of  his  functions.  "  Which, 
when  one  ceases  to  be,"  says  the  Pilgrtji's  Scrap,  "one  is  no 
longer  man  :  "  and  appends  that  "  it  is  the  tendency  of  very 
fast  people  to  grow  organically  dowmvard."  Pity  the  sorrows 
of  a  poor  dyspepsy !  Like  the  Actinia,  poor  Hippias  had 
grown  to  be  all  stomach — though  not  so  pretty  to  look  at. 

"  You  will  drink  a  bottle  and  drown  the  fairy  on  the  day 
Ricky's  married,"  says  Adrian,  eyeing  the  traitor  blush  he 
calls  up  on  the  ingenuous  cheeks. 

Hippias  realizes    distant  consequences   immediately,  and 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DEAGON.  139 

contracts  Ms  jaw  to  stipulate  for  it  at  night,  then :  not  in 
the  morning  at  the  breakfast.  He  is  capable  of  nothing  but 
very  weak  tea  and  dry  toast,  or  gruel,  in  the  morning.  He 
adds  that,  how  people  can  drink  wine  at  that  early  hour, 
amazes  him.  "  I  should,"  he  exclaims  energetically,  "  I 
should  be  afraid  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  if  I  did  such  a 
thing!" 

Adrian  leans  to  Richard,  and  bids  the  blush-mantled  yoiath 
mind  he  does  not  swallow  his  fairy,  or  he  may  have  a  similar 
nnbewitching  fear  upon  him  on  the  awful  occasion.  Richard 
cocks  his  ear.  His  hour  has  struck.  His  heaven  awaits  him 
in  the  wood,  and  he  is  off. 

This  '  Tragedy  of  a  Cooking-Apparatus,'  as  Adrian 
designated  the  malady  of  Hippias,  was  repeated  regularly 
every  evening.  It  was  natural  for  any  youth  to  escape  as 
quick  as  he  could  from  such  a  table  of  stomachs. 

Adrian  bore  with  his  conduct  considerately,  until  a  letter 
from  the  baronet,  describing  the  house  and  maternal  System 
of  Mrs.  Caroline  Grandison,  and  the  rough  grain  of  hope- 
fulness in  her  youngest  daughter,  spurred  him  to  think  of 
his  duties,  and  see  what  was  going  on.  He  gave  Richard 
half  an  hour's  start,  and  then  put  on  his  hat  to  follow  his 
own  keen  scent,  leaving  Hippias  and  the  Eighteenth  Century 
to  piquet. 

In  the  lane  near  Belthorpe  he  met  a  maid  of  the  farm  not 
unknown  to  him,  one  Molly  Davenport  by  name,  a  buxom 
lass,  who,  on  seeing  him,  invoked  her  Good  Gracious,  the 
generic  maid's  familiar,  and  was  instructed  by  reminiscences 
vivid,  if  ancient,  to  giggle. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  your  young  gentleman  ? "  Molly 
presently  asked, 

Adrian  glanced  about  the  lane  like  a  cool  brigand,  to  see 
if  the  coast  was  clear,  and  replied  to  her,  "  I  am,  miss.  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  about  him." 

"  Dear !  "  said  the  buxom  lass,  "  was  you  coming  for  me 
lo-night  to  know  ?  " 

Adrian  rebuked  her:  for  lier  bad  grammar,  apparently. 

"  Cause  I  can't  stop  out  long  to-night,"  Molly  explained, 
taking  the  rebuke  to  refer  altogether  to  her  bad  grammar. 

"  You  may  go  in  when  you  please,  miss.  Is  that  any  one 
coming  ?     Come  here  in  the  shade." 

"  Now,  get  along  !  "  said  Miss  Molly, 


140  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnAnD  FEVEREL. 

It  was  hard  upon  tlio  wise  youth,  and  ho  felt  it  so,  that 
she  would  not  accept  his  imiieceubility.  He  said  austerely: 
"  I  desire  you  to  know,  miss,  that,  notwithstanding  your  un- 
protected situation  and  the  favouring  darkness,  a  British 
female,  in  all  places  and  at  all  seasons,  may  confidently 
repose  the  precious  jewel  " 

The  buxom  lass  interrupted  the  harangue  by  an  explosion 
of  giggles.  "  I  declare,"  she  cried,  "  I  used  for  to  believe 
you  at  fust ;  and  when  you  begin  you  looks  like  it  now. 
You're  al'ays  as  good  as  a  play.  I  say — don't  you  remem- 
ber " 

Adrian  spoke  with  resolution.  "  Will  you  listen  to  me, 
Miss  Davenport !  "  He  put  a  coin  in  her  hand,  which  had  a 
medical  effect  in  calming  her  to  attention.  "  I  want  to  know 
whether  you  have  seen  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  Your  young  gentleman  ?  I  sh'd  think  I  did.  I 
seen  him  to-night  only.  Ain't  he  growed  handsome.  He's 
al'ays  about  Beltharp  now.  It  ain't  to  fire  no  more  ricks. 
He's  afire  'unself.  AJin't  you  seen  'em  together  ?  He's  after 
the  missis  " 

Adrian  requested  Miss  Davenport  to  be  respectful,  and 
confine  herself  to  particulars.  Ihe  buxom  lass  then  told 
him  that  her  young  missis  and  Adrian's  young  gentleman 
were  a  pretty  couple,  and  met  one  another  every  night. 
The  girl  swore  for  their  innocence. 

"  As  for  Miss  Lucy,  she  haven't  a  bit  of  art  in  her,  noi* 
have  he." 

"  They're  all  nature,  I  suppose,"  said  Adi-ian.  "  How  is  it 
T  don't  see  her  at  church  ?  " 

"  She's  Catholic,  or  somethink,"  said  Molly.  "  Her  feyther 
was,  and  a  leftenant.  She've  a  Cross  in  her  bedroom.  She 
don't  go  to  church.  I  see  you  there  last  Sunday  a-lookin'  so 
solemn,"  and  Molly  stroked  her  hand  down  her  chin  to  give 
it  length. 

Adrian  insisted  on  her  keeping  to  facts.  It  was  dark,  and 
in  the  dark  he  was  indifferent  to  the  striking  contrasts  sug- 
gested by  the  buxom  lass,  but  he  wanted  to  hear  facts,  and 
he  again  bribed  her  to  distil  nothing  but  facts.  Upon  which 
she  told  him  further,  that  her  young  lady  was  an  innocent 
artless  creature  who  had  been  to  school  upwards  of  three 
years  with  the  nuns,  and  had  a  little  money  of  her  own,  and 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DEAGOlT.  141 

was  beautiful  enough  to  bo  a  lord's  lady,  and  had  been  in 
love  with  Master  Richard  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl. 
]\Iolly  had  got  from  a  friend  of  hers  up  at  the  Abbey,  Mary 
Garner,  the  housemaid  who  cleaned  Master  Richard's  room, 
a  bit  of  paper  once  with  the  young  gentleman's  handwriting, 
and  had  given  it  to  her  Miss  Lucy,  and  Miss  Lucy  had  given 
her  a  gold  sovei'eign  for  it — just  for  his  handwriting  !  Miss 
Lucy  did  not  seem  happy  at  the  farm,  because  of  that  young 
Tom,  who  was  always  leering  at  her,  and  to  be  sure  she  was 
quite  a  lady,  and  could  play,  and  sing,  and  dress  with  the 
best, 

"  She  looks  like  a  angel  in  her  nightgown ! "  ]\Iolly 
wound  up. 

The  next  moment  she  ran  up  close,  and  speaking  for  the 
first  time  as  if  there  were  a  distinction  of  position  between 
them,  petitioned  :  "  Mr.  Harley  !  you  won't  go  for  a-doin'  any 
harm  to  'em  'cause  of  what  I  said,  will  you  now  ?  Do  say 
you  won't  now,  Mr.  Harley  !  She  is  good,  though  she's  a 
Catholic.  She  was  kind  to  me  when  I  was  ill,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  her  crossed — I'd  rather  be  showed  up  myself, 
I  would  !  " 

The  wise  youth  gave  no  positive  promise  to  the  buxora 
lass,  and  she  had  to  read  his  consent  in  a  relaxation  of  his 
austerity.  The  noise  of  a  lumbering  foot  plodding  down  the 
lane  caused  her  to  be  abruptly  dismissed.  Molly  took  to  flight, 
the  lumbering  foot  accelerated  its  pace,  and  the  pastoral 
appeal  to  her  flying  skirts  was  heard — "  Moll !  yau,  theyre  ! 
It  be  I — Bantam  !  "  But  the  sprightly  Silvia  would  not 
stop  to  his  wooing,  and  Adrian  turned  away  laughing  at 
these  Arcadians. 

Adrian  was  a  lazy  dragon.  All  he  did  for  the  present  was 
to  hint  and  tease.  "  It's  the  Inevitable  !  "  he  said,  and  asked 
himself  why  he  should  seek  to  arrest  it.  He  had  no  faith  in 
the  System.  Hoavy  Benson  had.  Benson  of  the  slow  thick- 
lidded  antediluvian  eye  and  loose-crumpled  skin;  Benson,  the 
Saurian,  the  woman-hater.  Benson  was  wide  awake.  A  sort 
of  rivalry  existed  between  the  wise  youth  and  Heavy  Benson. 
The  fidelity  of  the  latter  dependant  had  moved  the  baronet  to 
commit  to  him  a  portion  of  the  management  of  the  Raynham 
estate,  and  this  Adrian  did  not  like.  No  one  who  aspires  to 
the  honourable  office  of  leading  another  by  the  nose  can 
tolerate  a  party  in  his  ambition.     Benson's  surly  instinct  told 


1-12  THE  Or.DKAL  OF  rjCTTARD  FEVEREU 

liim  he  was  in  tho  wise  yonth'a  way,  and  he  resolved  to  pive 
his  master  a  striking  proof  of  his  superior  faitlilulncss.  For 
some  weeks  the  Saurian  eye  had  been  on  the  two  secret 
creatures.  Heavy  Benson  saw  letters  come  and  go  in  tho 
day,  and  now  the  young  gentleman  was  oil"  and  out  every 
night,  and  seemed  to  be  on  wings.  Benson  knew  whither  he 
went,  and  the  object  he  went  for.  It  was  a  woman — that 
was  enough.  The  Saurian  eye  had  actually  seen  the  sinful 
thing  lure  the  hope  of  Raynham  into  the  shades.  He  com- 
posed  several  epistles  of  waraing  to  the  baronet  of  the  work 
that  was  going  on ;  but  before  sending  one  he  wished  to 
record  a  little  of  their  guilty  conversation  ;  and  for  this  pur- 
pose the  faithful  fellow  nightly  trotted  over  the  dews  to  eaves- 
di-op,  and  thereby  aroused  the  good  fairy,  in  the  person  of 
Tom  Bakewell,  the  sole  confidant  of  Ilichard's  state. 

Tom  said  to  his  young  master,  "  Do  you  know  what,  sir  ? 
You  be  watched  !  " 

Richard,  in  a  fury,  bade  him  name  the  wretch,  and  Tom 
hung  his  arms,  and  aped  the  i-espectable  protrusion  of  the 
butler's  head. 

"  It's  he,  is  it  ?  "  cried  Richard.  "  He  shall  rue  it,  Tom  ! 
If  I  find  him  near  me  when  we're  together  he  shall  never 
forget  it." 

"  Don't  hit  too  hard,  sir,"  Tom  suggested.  "  You  hit 
mortal  hard  Avhen  you're  in  earnest,  you  know." 

Richard  aveiTcd  he  would  forgive  anything  but  that,  and 
told  Tom  to  be  within  hail  to-morrow  night — he  knew  where. 
By  the  hour  of  the  appointment  it  was  out  of  the  lover's 
mind. 

Heavy  Benson's  epistle  of  warning,  addressed  to  Sir  Austin 
Absvvorthy  Bearne  Feverel,  Bart.,  and  containing  an  extra- 
ordinary travesty  of  the  mutual  converse  of  two  love-sick 
beings,  specially  calculated  to  alarm  a  moral  parent,  was 
posted  and  travelling  to  town.  His  work  was  done.  Uu- 
luckily  for  his  bones,  he  had,  in  the  process,  acquired  a 
prurient  taste  for  the  service  of  spy  upon  Cupid  ;  and,  after 
doing  duty  at  table,  he  was  again  out  over  the  dews,  hoping 
to  behold  the  extreme  wickedness  of  the  celestial  culprit. 

Lady  Blandish  dined  that  evening  at  Raynham,  by  Adrian's 
pointed  invitation.  According  to  custom,  Richard  started  up 
and  off,  with  few  excuses.  The  lady  exhibited  no  surprise. 
She  and  Adrian  likewise  strolled  forth  to  enjoy  the  air  of  the 


TEEATMENT  OF  A  DrvAGO:JT.  143 

Slimmer  niglit.  Tliey  had  no  intention  of  spying.  Still  tliey 
may  have  thought,  by  meeting  Kichard  and  his  innamorata, 
there  was  a  chance  of  laying  a  foundation  of  ridicule  to  sap 
the  passion.  They  may  have  thought  so — they  were  on  no 
spoken  understanding. 

"  I  have  seen  the  little  gii"l,"  said  Lady  Blandish.  "  She  is 
pretty — she  would  be  telling  if  she  were  well  set  up.  She 
speaks  well.  How  absurd  it  is  of  that  class  to  educate  their 
women  above  their  station  !  The  child  is  really  too  good  for 
a  farmer.  I  noticed  her  before  I  knew  of  this ;  she  has 
enviable  hair.  I  suppose  she  doesn't  paint  her  eyelids.  Just 
the  sort  of  person  to  take  a  young  man.  I  thought  there  was 
something  wrong.  I  received,  the  day  before  yesterday,  an 
impassioned  poem  evidently  not  intended  for  me.  My  hair 
was  gold.  My  meeting  him  was  foretold.  My  eyes  were 
homes  of  light  fringed  with  night.  I  sent  it  back,  correcting 
the  colours." 

"  Which  was  death  to  the  rhymes,"  said  Adrian,  "  I  saw 
her  this  morning.  The  boy  hasn't  bad  taste.  As  you  say, 
she  is  too  good  for  a  farmer.  Such  a  spark  would  explode 
any  System.  She  slightly  affected  mine.  The  Huron  is 
stark  mad  about  her." 

"  But  we  must  positively  write  and  tell  his  father,"  said 
Lady  Blandish. 

The  wise  youth  did  not  see  why  they  should  exaggerate  a 
trifle.  The  lady  said  she  would  have  an  interview  with 
Richard,  and  then  write,  as  it  was  her  duty  to  do.  Adrian 
shrugged,  and  was  for  going  into  the  scientific  explanation 
of  Richard's  conduct,  in  which  the  lady  had  to  discourage 
him. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  she  sighed.  "  I  am  really  sorry  for  him.  I 
hope  he  will  not  feel  it  too  strongly.  They  feel  strongly, 
father  and  son." 

"  And  select  wisely  ?  "  Adrian  slyly  appended. 

"  That's  another  thing,"  said  Lady  Blandish.  "  You  have 
heard  about  the  Grandisons,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  Yes.     A  perfect  woman,  mirroi-ed  in  her  progeny." 

"  I  detest  a  perfect  woman,"  said  Lady  Blandish. 

"I  should  like  her  better  than  her  progeny." 

"  I  pity  her  husband,"  said  Lady  Blandish. 

"  As  the  Pilgrim's  Sciup  would  remark — *  There's  his 
recompense.'  " 


1 1 1  TiiK  or.DrAT,  OF  niriTAT^n  fkvkkel. 

"I'm  afraid  some  one  is  easily  hoodwinked,"  said  Lady 
Bl.indish. 

The  wise  youth  smiled. 

Tlieir  talk  was  then  of  the  dulness  of  neio^hbounug  county 
people,  about  whom,  it  seemed,  there  was  little  or  no  scandal 
afloat:  of  the  lady's  loss  of  the  season  in  town,  which  she 
professed  not  to  reprret,  thouafh  she  complained  of  hei'  f^eneral 
weariness:  of  whether  Mr.  ^birton  of  Poer  Hall  would  pro- 
pose to  Mrs.  Doria,  and  of  the  probable  despair  of  the 
hapless  curate  of  Lobourne ;  and  other  gossip,  partly  in 
French. 

They  rounded  the  lake,  and  got  upon  the  road  through 
the  park  to  Lobourne.  The  moon  had  risen.  The  atmos- 
phere was  warm  and  pleasant. 

"  Quite  a  lover's  night,"  said  Lady  Blandish. 

"  And  I,  who  have  none  to  love — pity  me ! "  The  wise 
youth  attempted  a  sigh. 

"  And  never  wnll  have,"  said  Lady  Blandish,  curtly. 
**  You  bny  your  loves." 

"  Good  heavens,  madam  !  "  Adrian  protested.  This  was 
science  with  a  vengeance.  However,  he  did  not  plead 
verbally  against  the  impeachment,  though  the  lady's  decisive 
insight  astonished  him.  He  began  to  respect  her,  scarce 
relishing  her  exquisite  contempt,  and  reflected  that  widows 
were  terrible  creatures. 

He  had  hoped  to  be  a  little  sentimental  with  Lady 
Blandish,  knowing  her  romantic.  This  mixture  of  the 
hai-shest  common  sense  and  an  air  of  "  I  know  yon  men," 
with  romance  and  refined  temperament,  subdued  the  wise 
youth  more  than  a  positive  accusation  supported  by  witnesses 
■would  have  done.  He  looked  at  the  lady.  Her  face  was 
raised  to  the  moon.  She  knew  nothing — she  had  simply 
spoken  from  the  fulness  of  her  human  knowledge,  and  had 
forgotten  her  words.  Perhaps,  after  all,  her  admiration,  or 
whatever  feeling  it  was,  for  the  baronet,  was  sincere,  and 
really  the  longing  for  a  virtuous  man.  Perhaps  she  had 
tried  the  opposite  set  pretty  much.  Adrian  shrugged. 
Whenever  the  wise  youth  encountered  a  mental  difficulty  he 
instinctively  lifted  his  shoulders  to  equal  altitudes,  to  show 
that  he  had  no  doubt  there  was  a  balance  in  the  case — 
plenty  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  which  was  the  same  to  him 
as  a  definite  solution. 

At  their  tryst  in  the  wood,  abutting  on  Raynham  Park, 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DEAGON.  145 

wrapped  in  tliemselves,  piped  to  by  tireless  Love,  Richard 
and  Lucy  sat,  toying-  with  eternal  moments.  How  they  seem 
as  if  they  would  never  end !  What  mei-e  sparks  they  are 
when  they  have  died  out !  And  how-  in  the  distance  of  time 
they  revive,  and  extend,  and  glow,  and  make  us  think  them 
full  the  half,  and  the  best  of  the  fire,  of  our  lives  ! 

With  the  onward  flow  of  intimacy,  the  two  happy  lovers 
ceaoed  to  be  so  shy  of  common  themes,  and  their  speech  did 
not  reject  all  as  dross  that  was  not  pure  gold  of  emotion. 

Lucy  was  very  inquisitive  about  everything  and  everybody 
at  Raynham.  Whoever  had  been  about  Richard  since  his 
birth,  she  must  know  the  history  of,  and  he  for  a  kiss  will  do 
her  bidding. 

Thus  goes  the  tender  duet — 

"  You  should  know  my  cousin  Austin,  Lucy. — Darling  ! 
Beloved  !  " 

"  My  own  !  Richard  !  " 

"  You  should  know  my  cousin  Austin.  You  shall  know 
him.  He  would  take  to  you  best  of  them  all,  and  you  to 
him.  He  is  in  the  tropics  now,  looking  out  a  place — it's  a 
secret — for  poor  English  working-men  to  emigrate  to  and 
found  a  colony  in  that  part  of  the  world — my  white  angel !  " 

"  Dear  love  !  " 

"  He  is  such  a  noble  fellow  !  Nobody  here  understands 
him  but  me.  Isn't  it  strange  ?  Since  I  met  you  I  love  him 
better  !  That's  because  I  love  all  that's  good  and  noble 
better  now — Beautiful !     I  love — 1  love  you  !  " 

"  My  Richard  !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  I've  determined,  Lucy  ?  If  my  father 
— — but  no  !  my  father  does  love  me. — No  !  he  will  not;  and 
we  will  be  happy  together  here.  And  I  will  win  my  way 
with  you.  And  whatever  I  win  will  be  yours  ;  for  it  will  be 
owing  to  you.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  no  strength  but  yours — 
none  !  and  you  make  me — 0  Lucy  !  " 

His  voice  ebbs.     Presently  Lucy  murmurs — 

"  Your  father,  Richard." 

*'  Yes,  my  father  ?  " 

*'  Dearest  Richard  !     I  foel  so  afraid  of  him.'* 

"He  loves  me,  and  will  love  you,  Lucy." 

"But  I  am  so  poor  and  humble,  Richard." 

"No  one  I  have  ever  seen  is  like  you,  Lucy.** 

"  You  think  so,  because  you  " 


146  THE  ORDRAL  OF  rJCIIAKD  FEVKREL. 

"  Wliat  ?  " 

"  Lovo  iiic,"  comes  the  blusliiii!::^  wliispcr,  and  the  dnel 
gives  place  to  dumb  variiitious,  performed  equally  in  concert. 

It  is  resumed. 

"  You  are  fond  of  the  knights,  Lucy.  Austin  is  as  hi-avo 
as  any  of  them. — ^ly  own  bride  !  Oh,  how  I  adore  you  ! 
When  you  are  gone,  I  could  fall  upon  the  grass  you  tread 
upon,  and  kiss  it.  My  breast  feels  empty  of  my  heart — 
Lucy!  if  we  lived  in  those  days,  I  should  have  been  a  knight, 
and  have  won  honour  and  glory  for  you.  Oh  !  one  can  do 
nothing  now.  My  lady-love  !  My  lady-love  ! — A  tear  ? — 
Lucy  ?  " 

"  Dearest !     Ah,  Richard  !     I  am  not  a  lady." 

**  Who  dares  say  that  ?     Not  a  lady — the  angel  I  love  !  " 

•*  Think,  Ricliard,  who  I  am." 

*' My  beautiful!  I  think  that  God  made  you,  and  has 
given  you  to  me." 

Her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and,  as  she  lifts  them  heavenward 
to  thank  her  God,  the  light  of  heaven  strikes  on  them,  and 
she  is  so  radiant  in  her  pure  beauty  that  the  limbs  of  the 
young  man  tremble. 

"  Lucy  !     O  heavenly  spirit!    Lucy  I  " 

Tenderly  her  lips  part — "  T  do  not  weep  for  soitow." 

The  big  bright  drops  lighten,  and  roll  down,  imaged  in  his 
Boul. 

They  lean  together — shadows  of  ineffable  tenderness  play- 
ing on  their  thrilled  cheeks  and  brows. 

He  dares  not  touch  her  lips.  He  lifts  her  hand,  and  presses 
his  mouth  to  it.  She  has  seen  little  of  mankind,  but  her 
soul  tells  her  this  one  is  different  from  others,  and  at  the 
thought,  in  her  great  joy,  tears  must  come  fast,  or  her  heart 
"will  break — tears  of  boundless  thanksgiving.  And  he,  gazing 
on  those  soft,  ray-illumined,  dark-edged  eyes,  and  the  gi-aco 
of  her  loose  falling  tresses,  feels  a  scarce-sufferable  holy  fire 
streaming  through  his  members. 

It  is  long  ere  they  speak  in  open  tones. 

"  O  happy  day  when  we  met !  " 

What  says  the  voice  of  one,  the  soul  of  the  other  echoes. 

"  O  glorious  heaven  looking  down  on  us  !  " 

Their  souls  are  joined,  are  made  one  for  evermore  beneath 
that  bending  benediction. 

"  0  eternity  of  bliss  !  " 

Then  the  diviner  mood  passes,  and  they  drop  to  earth. 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DRAGON.  147 

"LncyT  come  with  me  to-Bight,  and  loot  at  the  plact 
where  you  are  some  day  to  live.  Come,  and  I  will  row  you 
on  the  lake.  You  remember  what  you  said  in  your  letter 
that  you  dreamt  P — that  we  were  floating  over  the  shadow  of 
the  Abbey  to  the  nuns  at  work  by  torchlight  felling  the 
cypress,  and  they  handed  us  each  a  sprig.  Why,  darling", 
it  was  the  best  omen  in  the  world,  their  felling  the  old  trees. 
And  you  write  such  lovely  letters.  So  pure  and  sweet  they 
are.     I  love  the  nuns  for  having  taught  you." 

"Ah,  Richard  !  See  !  we  forget !  Ah  !"  she  lifts  up  her 
face  pleadingly,  as  to  plead  against  herself,  "  even  if  your 
father  forgives  my  birth,  he  will  not  my  religion.  And, 
dearest,  though  I  would  die  for  you  I  cannot  change  it.  It 
would  seem  that  I  was  denying  God ;  and — oh !  it  would 
make  me  ashamed  of  my  love." 

"  Fear  nothing  !"  He  winds  her  about  with  his  arm, 
"  Come !  He  will  love  us  both,  and  love  you  the  more  for 
being  faithful  to  your  father's  creed.  You  don't  know  him, 
Lucy.  He  seems  harsh  and  stei-n — he  is  full  of  kindness  and 
love.  He  isn't  at  all  a  bigot.  And  besides,  when  he  hears 
what  the  nuns  have  done  for  you,  won't  he  thank  them,  as 
I  do  ?  And — oh  !  I  must  speak  to  him  soon,  and  you  must 
be  prepared  to  see  him  soon,  for  I  cannot  bear  your  remain- 
ing at  Belthorpe,  like  a  jewel  in  a  sty.  Mind  !  I'm  not 
saying  a  word  against  your  uncle.  I  declare  I  love  every- 
body and  everything  that  sees  you  and  touches  you.  Stay  ! 
it  is  a  wonder  how  you  could  have  grown  there.  But  you 
were  not  born  there,  and  your  father  had  good  blood.  Des- 
borough  ! — there  was  a  Colonel  Desborough — never  mind  ! 
Come  !" 

She  dreads  to.     She  begs  not  to.     She  is  drawn  away. 

The  woods  are  silent,  and  then — 

"What  think  you  of  that  for  a  pretty  pastoral  ?"  says  a 
very  different  voice. 

Adrian  rsclined  against  a  pine  overlooking  the  fern-covert. 
Lady  Blandish  was  i^ecumbent  upon  the  brown  pine-drop- 
pings, gazing  through  a  vista  of  the  lower  greenwood  which 
opened  out  upon  the  moon-lighted  valley,  her  hands  clasped 
round  one  knee,  her  features  almost  stem  in  their  set  hard 
expression. 

She  did  not  answer.  A  movement  among  the  ferns  at- 
tracted  Adi-ian,  and  he  stepped  down  the  decline  across  tha 

l2 


lis  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

pinc-roots  to  Loliolil  Heavy  Benson  below,  Rhaking  fem-seed 
and  si)iilcrv  siihsfanccs  olT  his  cnimplcMl  skin. 

"Is  that  yon,  Mr.  Hadrian?"  called  Benson,  starting,  as 
he  piiflVd,  and  exercised  his  handkerchief. 

"  Is  it  'jon,  Benson,  who  have  had  the  audacity  to  spy  upon 
the  Mysteries,  and  are  not  struck  blind  ?"  Adrian  called 
,back,  and  cominEr  close  to  him,  added,  "  You  look  as  if  you 
had  just  been  well  thrashed." 

"  Isn't  it  dreadful,  sir  ?"  snuffled  Benson.  "  And  his  father 
in  ignorance,  Mr.  Hadrian  !" 

"  He  shall  know,  Benson  !  Ho  shall  know  how  you  have 
endangered  your  valuable  skin  in  his  service.  If  Mr.  Richard 
had  found  you  there  just  now  I  wouldn't  answer  for  the 
consequences." 

"Ha!"  Benson  spitefully  retorted.  "This  won't  go  on, 
Mr.  Hadrian.  It  shan't,  sir.  It  will  be  put  a  stop  to  to- 
morrow, sir.  I  call  it  con-uption  of  a  young  gentleman  like 
him,  and  harlotry,  sir,  I  call  it.  I'd  have  every  jade  flogged 
that  made  a  young  innocent  gentleman  go  on   like    that, 

BIT." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  stop  it  yourself,  Benson  ?  Ah,  I 
Bee  !  you  waited — eh  ?  Hm  ! — or  what,  Benson  ?  This  is 
not  the  the  first  time  you  have  been  attendant  on  Mr.  Apollo 
and  ^liss  Dryope?  You  have  wi'itten  to  headquarters,  have 
you  ?     Nothing  like  zeal,  Benson  !" 

"  I  did  my  duty,  Mr.  Hadrian." 

*'  Don't  let  it  rob  you  of  your  breath,  Benson." 

The  wise  youth  returned  to  Lady  Blandish,  and  informed 
her  of  Benson's  zeal.  The  lady's  eyes  flashed.  "  I  hope 
Hichard  will  treat  him  as  he  deserves,"  she  said. 

"  Shall  we  home  ?"  Adrian  inquired. 

"  Do  me  a  favour,"  the  lady  replied.  "  Get  my  carriage 
Bent  round  to  meet  me  at  the  park-gates." 

"  Won't  you  ?" 

**  I  want  to  be  alone." 

Adrian  bowed  and  left  her.  She  was  still  sitting  with  her 
hands  clasped  round  one  knee,  gazing  towards  the  dim  ray- 
strewn  valley. 

"An  odd  creature  !"  muttered  the  wise  youth.  "  She's  as 
odd  as  any  of  them.  She  ought  to  be  a  Feverel.  I  suppose 
she's  graduating  for  it.  Hang  that  confounded  old  ass  of  a 
Benson !     He  has  had  the  impudence  to  steal  a  march  on 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DRAGON.  149 

me?  IN'ot  a  bad  sng-gcstion  of  the  Blandish.  We'll  see 
about  it." 

The  shadow  of  the  cypress  was  lessening  on  the  lake.  The 
Tnoon  was  climbing  high.  As  Richard  rowed  the  boat,  Lucy 
sang  to  him  softly.  She  sang  first  a  fresh  little  French 
song,  reminding  him  of  a  day  when  she  had  been  asked  to 
8ing  to  him  before,  and  he  did  not  care  to  hear.  "  Did  I 
live  ?  "  he  thinks.  Then  she  sang  to  him  a  bit  of  one  of 
those  majestic  old  Gregorian  chants,  that,  wherever  you  may 
hear  them,  seem  to  build  up  cathedral  walls  about  you.  The 
young  man  dropped  the  sculls.  The  strange  solemn  notes 
gave  a  religious  tone  to  his  love,  and  watted  him  into  the 
knightly  ages  and  the  reverential  heart  of  chivaliy. 

Hanging  between  two  heavens  on  the  lake :  floating  to  her 
voice :  the  moon  stepping  over  and  through  white  shoals  of 
soft  high  clouds  above  and  below :  floating  to  her  voice — no 
other  breath  abroad !  His  soul  went  out  of  his  body  as  he 
listened. 

They  must  part.     He  rows  her  gently  shoreward. 

"  I  never  was  so  happy  as  to-night,"  she  murmurs. 

"Look,  my  Lucy.  The  lights  of  the  old  place  are  on  the 
lake.     Look  where  you  are  to  live." 

"  Which  is  your  room,  Richard  ?  " 

He  points  it  out  to  her. 

"  O  Richard  !  that  I  were  one  of  the  women  who  wait  on 
you  !  I  should  ask  nothing  more.  How  happy  she  must 
be!" 

"My  darling  angel-love.  You  sh.all  be  happy;  but  all 
shall  wait  on  you,  and  I  foi-emost,  Lucy." 

"  Dearest !  may  1  hope  for  a  letter  ?  " 

*'  By  eleven  to-morrow.     And  I  ?  " 

*'  Oh  !  you  will  have  mine,  Richard." 

"  Tom  shall  wait  for  it.  A  long  one,  mind  !  Did  yon  like 
my  last  song  ?  " 

She  puts  her  hand  quietly  against  her  bosom,  and  he 
knows  where  it  rests.     O  love  !     O  heaven  ! 

They  are  aroused  by  the  harsh  grating  of  the  bow  of 
the  boat  against  the  shingle.  He  jumps  out,  and  lifts  her 
ashore. 

"  See !  "  she  says,  as  the  blush  of  his  embrace  subsides— 
"  See  ! "  and  prettily  she  mimics  awe  and  feels  it  a  little, 
"  the  cypress  does  point  towards  us.    O  Richard  !  it  docs  1 " 


150  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEIIF.L. 

And  ho,  lookiniT  at  her  rfiHior  than  at  the  cvprcss,  de- 
lightiuLj  in  lior  arch  grave  ways — 

"  Why,  there's  hardly  any  sliadow  at  all,  Lucy.  She 
mustn't  dream,  my  darling !  or  dream  only  of  me." 

"  Dearest !  but  I  do." 

"  To-morrow,  Lucy  !  The  letter  in  the  morning,  and  you 
at  night.     O  hnp]iy  to-mon-ow  !  " 

"  You  will  be  sure  to  be  there,  Richard  ?  " 

"  If  1  am  not  dead,  Lucy." 

"  O  Richard  1  pray,  pray  do  not  speak  of  that.  I  shall  not 
survive  you." 

"  Let  us  pray,  Lucy,  to  die  together,  -when  we  are  to  die. 
Death  or  life,  with  you!  Who  is  it  yonder?  I  see  some 
one — is  it  Tom  ?     It's  Adrian  !  " 

"  Is  it  !Mr.  Harley  ?  "     The  fair  girl  shivered. 

"  How  dares  he  come  here  !  "  cried  Richard. 

The  figure  of  Adrian,  instead  of  advancing,  discreetly 
circled  the  lake.  They  were  stealing  away  when  he  called. 
His  call  was  repeated.  Lucy  entreated  Richard  to  go  to 
him ;  but  the  young  man  preferred  to  summon  his  atte  idant, 
Tom,  from  within  hail,  and  send  him  to  know  what  was 
wanted. 

"  Will  he  have  seen  me  ?  Will  he  have  known  me  ?  " 
whispered  Lucy  tremulously. 

"  And  if  he  does,  love  ?  "  said  Richard. 

"  Oh  !  if  he  does,  dearest — I  don't  know,  but  I  feel  such  a 
presentiment.  You  have  not  spoken  of  him  to-night,  Ricliard. 
Is  he  good  ?  " 

"  Good  ?  "  Richard  clutched  her  hand  for  the  innocent 
maiden  phrase.  "  He's  very  fond  of  eating ;  that's  all  I 
know  of  Adrian." 

Her  hand  was  at  his  lips  when  Tom  returned. 

"  Well,  Tom  ?  " 

"  !Mr.  Adrian  wishes  particular  to  speak  to  you,  sir,"  sm'd 
Tom,  emphasizing  his  achievement  of  a  four-syllable  word. 

"  Do  go  to  liim,  dearest  1     Do  go  !  "  Lncy  begs  him. 

"  Oh,  how  I  hate  Adrian  !"  The  young  man  grinds  his 
teeth. 

"  Do  go  !  "  Lucy  re-urges  him.  "  Tom — good  Tom — will 
see  me  home.     To-morrow,  dear  love  I     To-morrow  !  " 

"  You  wish  to  part  from  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  unkind  !  but  you  must  not  come  with  me  now.  It 
may  be  news  of  importance,  dearest.     Think,  Richard !  " 


TREATMENT  OF  A  DnAGON.  151 

«  Tom  !  go  back  !  " 

At  the  imperious  command  the  well-drilled  Tom  strides  off 
a  dozen  paces,  and  sees  nothing'.  Then  the  preoious  charge 
is  confided  to  him.     A  heart  is  cut  in  twain. 

Richard  made  his  way  to  Adrian.  "  Wliat  is  it  you  want 
with  me,  Adrian  ?  " 

"  Are  we  seconds,  or  principals,  0  fiery  one  ? "  was 
Adrian's  answer,  "  I  want  nothing  with  you,  except  to 
know  whether  you  have  seen  Benson." 

"  Where  should  I  see  Benson  ?  What  do  I  know  o£  Ben- 
son's doings  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — such  a  secret  old  fist  as  he  is !  I  want 
some  one  to  tell  him  to  order  Lady  Blandish's  carriage  to  be 
sent  round  to  the  park-gates.  I  thought  he  might  be  round 
your  way  over  there — I  came  upon  him  accidentally  just  now 
in  Abbey- wood — Hey  !  what's  the  matter,  boy  ?  " 

"  You  saw  him  there  ?  " 

"  Hunting  Diana,  I  suppose.  He  thinks  she's  not  so  chaste 
as  they  say,"  continued  Adrian.  "  Are  you  going  to  knock 
down  that  tree  ?  " 

Richard  had  turned  to  the  cypress,  and  was  tugging  at  the 
tough  wood.     He  left  it  and  went  to  an  ash. 

"  You'll  spoil  that  weeper,"  Adrian  cried.  "  Down  she 
comes  ! — all !  But  Good-night,  Ricky.  If  you  see  Benson, 
mind  you  tell  him." 

Doomed  Benson  following  his  burly  shadow  hove  in  sight 
on  the  white  road  while  Adrian  spoke.  The  wise  youth 
chuckled  and  strolled  round  the  lake,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder  every  now  and  then. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  heard  a  bellov/  for  Jielp  — tho 
roar  of  a  dragon  in  his  throes.  Adi-ian  placidly  sat  down  on 
the  grass,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  water.  There,  as  \k\Q 
roar  was  being  repeated  amid  horrid  resounding  echoes,  the 
wise  youth  mused  in  this  wise — 

"  '  The  Fates  are  Jews  with  us  when  they  delay  a  punish, 
ment,'  says  the  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Not 
a  bad  idea,  that  of  the  Fates  being  Jews — Jewesses  more 
classically  speaking.  The  heavens  evidently  love  Benson, 
seeing  that  he  gets  his  punishment  on  the  spot.  What  a 
lovely  night !  Those  two  young  ones  do  it  well.  Master 
Ricky  is  a  peppery  young  man.  Love  and  war  come  as 
natural  to  him  as  bread  and  butter.     He  gets  it  fiom  tho  »p 


152  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEUCL, 

GrnfTiulh.  I  mtlior  believe  in  race.  Wliat  a  nnisc  tliat  old 
ruHiau  makes  !  He'll  re(iuiro  poulticing'  witli  the  PiLnriiM's 
Scrip.  Wc  shall  liave  a  messapfe  to-morrow,  and  a  hubbub, 
and  perhaps  all  go  to  town,  which  won't  be  bad  for  one  who'a 
been  a  prey  to  all  the  desires  born  of  dulness  for  a  decade. 
Benson  howls  :  there's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet !  He  bays  the 
moon.  Look  at  her.  She  doesn't  care.  It's  the  same  to  her 
whether  we  coo  like  turtle-doves  or  roar  like  twenty  lions. 
Most  beauteous  moon  !  How  complacent  she  looks  !  How 
admirably  equable  !  And  yet  she  has  just  as  much  sympathy 
for  Benson  as  for  Cupid.  She  Avould  smile  on  if  both  were 
being  birched.  She  is  Perfect  Justice.  Was  that  a  raven  or 
Benson?  He  howls  no  more.  It  sounds  guttural :  frog-like 
— something  between  the  brek-kok-kek  and  the  hoarse  raven's 
croak.  The  fellow'll  be  killing  him.  It's  time  to  go  to  the 
rescue.  A  deliverer  gets  more  honour  by  coming'  in  at  the 
last  gasp  than  if  he  forestalled  catastrophe. — Ho,  there, 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

So  saying,  the  wise  youth  rose,  and  leisurely  trotted  to  the 
scene  of  battle,  where  stood  St.  George  puffing  over  the 
prostrate  Dragon. 

"  Holloa,  Ricky  !  is  it  you  ?  "  said  Adrian.  "  What's  this  ? 
Whom  have  we  here  ? — Benson,  as  I  live  !  " 

"  Make  this  beast  get  up,"  Richard  returned,  breathing 
hard,  and  shaking  his  great  ash-branch.  "  !Make  him  get 
up." 

"  He  seems  incapable,  my  dear  boy.  What  have  you  been 
np  to  ? — Benson  !  Benson  ! — I  say,  Ricky,  this  looks  bad." 

"  He's  shamming  !  "  Richard  clamoured  like  a  savage. 
"  Spy  upon  me,  will  he  ?  I  tell  you,  he's  shamming.  He 
hasn't  had  half  enough.  I^Tothing's  too  bad  for  a  spy.  Let 
him  get  up  !     Let  him  get  up  !  " 

"  Insatiate  youth  !  do  throw  away  that  enormous  weapon." 

"  He  has  written  to  my  father,"  Richard  shouted.  "  The 
miserable  spy !     Let  him  get  up  !     Let  him  get  up  !  " 

"  Ooogh  I  I  won't !  "  huskily  groaned  Benson.  "  !Mr. 
Hadrian,  you're  a  witness  he's  murdered — my  back  !  " — 
Cavei-nous  noises  took  up  the  tale  of  his  maltreatment. 

"  I  daresay  you  love  your  back  better  than  any  part  of 
your  body  now,"  Adrian  muttered.  "  Come,  Benson  !  be  a 
man.  Mr.  Richard  has  thrown  away  the  stick.  Come,  and 
get  ofE  home,  and  let's  see  the  extent  of  the  damage." 


TKEATMENT  OF  A  DKAGON.  1  .">3 

"  Oooqli  !  he's  a  devil !  Mr.  Hadrian,  sir,  he's  a  devil !  " 
groaned  Benson,  turning  half  over  in  the  road  to  ease  his 
aches. 

Adrian  caught  hold  of  Benson's  collar  and  lifted  him  to  a 
Bitting  posture.  He  then  had  a  glimpse  of  what  his  hopeful 
pupil's  hand  could  do  in  wrath.  The  wretched  butler's  coat 
was  slit  and  welted  ;  his  hat  knocked  in;  the  stain  of  a  tre- 
mendous blow  across  his  nose,  which  made  one  of  his  eyes 
seem  gone;  his  flabby  spirit  so  broken  that  he  started  and 
trembled  if  his  pitiless  executioner  stirred  a  foot.  Richard 
stood  over  him  with  folded  arms,  gi^asping  his  great  stick ; 
no  dawn  of  mercy  for  Benson  in  any  corner  of  his  features. 

Benson  screwed  his  neck  round  to  look  up  at  him,  and 
immediately  gasped,  "  I  won't  get  up  !  I  won't  get  up  !  He's 
ready  to  murder  me  again  ! — Mr.  Hadrian  !  if  you  stand  by 
and  see  it,  you're  liable  to  the  law,  sir — I  won't  get  up  while 
he's  near."  No  persuasion  could  induce  Benson  to  try  his 
legs  while  his  executioner  stood  by. 

Adrian  took  Richard  aside :  "  You've  almost  killed  the 
poor  devil,  Ricky.  You  must  be  satisfied  with  that.  Look 
at  his  face." 

"  The  coward  bobbed  while  I  struck,"  said  Richard.  "  I 
marked  his  back.  He  ducked.  I  told  him  he  was  getting  it 
worse." 

At  this  civilized  piece  of  savagery,  Adrian  opened  his 
mouth  to  shake  out  a  coil  of  laughter. 

"  Did  you  really  ?  I  admire  that.  You  told  him  he  was 
getting  it  worse  ?  I  thought  you  were  in  a  passion.  Beau- 
tifully cool !  Bravo  ! — You  are  politely  informed  that  if  you 
take  that  posture,  in  the  nature  of  things  and  by  reasonable 
calculation,  you  will  get  it  worse." 

Adrian  opened  his  mouth  again  to  shake  another  roll  of 
laughter  out. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  Excalibur  has  done  his  work.  Pitch 
him  into  the  lake.  And  see — here  comes  the  Blandish.  You 
can't  be  at  it  again  before  a  woman.  Go  and  meet  her,  and 
tell  her  the  noise  was  an  ox  being  slaughtered.  Or  say 
Argus." 

With  a  whirr  that  made  all  Benson's  bruises  moan  and 
quiver,  the  great  ash-branch  shot  aloft,  and  Richard  swung 
off  to  intercept  Lady  Blandish. 

Adrian  got  Benson  on  his  feet.     The  heavy  butler  was  die- 


154  TnE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

posod  to  summon  all  the  commiseration  he  could  foci  for  his 
bruised  flesli.  Every  half-step  he  attempted  was  like  a  dis- 
location.    His  groans  and  grunts  were  frightful. 

"  How  much  did  that  hat  cost,  Benson  ?  "  said  Adrian,  as 
he  put  it  on  his  head. 

"  A  five-and-twenty  shilling  beaver,  Mr.  Hadrian ! " 
Benson  caressed  its  injuries. 

*'  The  cheapest  policy  of  insurance  I  remember  to  have 
heard  of !  "  said  Adrian.  "  Never  part  w^ith  that  hat, 
Benson.     Love  it  as  you  love  yourself." 

Benson  staggered,  moaning  at  intervals  to  his  cruel  com- 
forter— 

"  He's  a  devil,  Mr.  Hadrian !  He's  a  devil,  sir,  I  do 
believe,  sir.  Ooogh  !  he's  a  devil  ! — I  can't  move,  Mr. 
Hadrian.  I  must  be  fetched.  And  Dr.  Clifford  must  be 
sent  for,  sir.  I  shall  never  be  fit  for  work  again.  1  haven't 
a  sound  bone  in  my  body,  Mr.  Hadrian." 

"  You  see,  Benson,  tbis  comes  of  your  declaring  war  upon 
Venus.  'Twas  Venus,  Venus  struck  the  deadly  blow  !  I 
hope  the  maids  will  nurse  you  properly.  Let  me  see  :  you 
are  friends  with  the  housekeeper,  aren't  you  ?  All  depends 
upon  that." 

"  I'm  only  a  faithful  servant,  Mr.  Hadrian,"  the  miserabla 
butler  snarled. 

"  So  you've  got  no  friend  but  your  bed.  Get  to  it  as  quick 
as  possible,  Benson." 

"  I  can't  move."  Benson  made  a  resolute  halt.  "I  must 
be  fetched,"  he  whinnied.  "  It's  a  shame  to  ask  me  to  move, 
Mr.  Hadrian." 

"  You  will  admit  that  you  are  heavy,  Benson,"  said 
Adrian,  "  so  I  can't  carry  you.  However,  I  see  Mr.  Richard 
is  very  kindly  returning  to  help  me." 

At  these  words  heavy  Benson  instantly  found  his  legs,  and 
shambled  on. 

Lady  Blandish  met  Richard  in  dismay. 

"  I  have  been  horribly  frightened,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me, 
what  was  the  meaning  of  those  cries  I  heard  ?  " 

"  Only  some  one  doing  justice  on  a  spy,"  said  Richard,  and 
the  lady  smiled,  and  looked  on  him  fondly,  and  put  her  hand 
through  his  hair. 

"  Was  that  all  ?  I  should  have  done  it  myself  if  I  had 
been  a  man.     Kiss  me." 


BICHAED  HEAES  A  SEEMOIT.  155 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

RICHARD   IS   SUMMONED  TO   TOWN   TO   HEAR  A   SERMON, 

By  twelve  o'clock  at  noon  next  day  the  inhabitants  of 
■fiaynliam  Abbey  knew  that  Beny,  the  baronet's  man,  had 
arrived  post-haste  from  town,  with  orders  to  conduct  Mr. 
Richard  thither,  and  that  Mr.  Richai-d  had  refused  to  go,  had 
Bworn  he  would  not,  defied  his  father,  and  despatched  Berry 
to  the  Shades.  Berry  was  all  that  Benson  was  not.  "Whereas 
Benson  hated  woman,  Berry  admired  her  warmly.  Second 
to  his  own  stately  person,  woman  occupied  his  reflections, 
and  commanded  his  homage.  Berry  was  of  majestic  port, 
and  used  dictionary  words.  Among  the  maids  of  Raynham 
his  cons  -ious  calves  produced  all  the  discord  and  the  frenzy 
those  adornments  seem  destined  to  create  in  tender  bosoms. 
He  had,  moreover,  the  reputation  of  having  suffered  terribly 
for  the  sex ;  which  assisted  his  object  in  inducing  the  sex  to 
suffer  terribly  for  him.  What  with  his  calves,  and  his  dic- 
tionary words,  and  the  attractive  halo  of  the  mysterious 
vindictiveness  of  Yenus  surrounding  him,  this  Adonis  of  the 
lower  household  was  a  mighty  man  below,  and  he  moved  as 
one. 

On  hearing  the  tumult  that  followed  Berry's  arrival, 
Adrian  sent  for  him,  and  was  informed  of  the  nature  of  his 
mission,  and  its  result. 

"  You  should  come  to  me  first,"  said  Adrian.  "  I  should 
have  imagined  you  were  shrewd  enough  for  that.  Berry  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Adrian,"  Berry  doubled  his  elbow  to 
explain.  "  Pardon,  me,  sir.  Acting  recijjient  of  special 
iniuncti(  D  -   I  was  not  a  free  agent." 

Adrian  tacitly  acknowledged  the  choiceness  of  the  phrase. 
ology,  and  asked  if  he  had  seen  Benson. 

"I  have  enjoyed  an  interview  with  ]\Ir.  Benson,  sir." 

*'  1  d.iresay  you  did  enjoy  it.  Berry  !  " 

Berry  protested  :  "  On  my  honour,  sir  !  From  the  pleni- 
tude of  health  and  spirits  I  regarded  'Mr.  Benson  with  pro- 
found— a — profound  " a  woi-d  fine  enough  for  his  emotion 

Deemed  wantiog. 


156  THE  OUDEAL  OF  RICIIAUD  FEVEIIEL. 

"  ^tr.  Richard  have  sliattei-cd  his  ganglions,  sir.** 

"  His  what  ?  "  Adrian  asked. 

Berry  corrected  the  casual  error  :  "  I  should  say,  his  idio* 
shincrazy,  sir." 

"  Accentuate  the  fourth,  not  the  fifth  syllable,  Berry," 

"  Exactly,  sir." 

"And  now  go  to  Mr.  Richard  again.  Berry.  There  will  bo 
a  little  confusion  if  he  holds  back.  Just  go  to  him,  and  per- 
haps you  had  better  throw  out  a  hint  or  so  of  aptiplcxy.  A 
slight  hint  will  do.  And  here — Berry  !  when  you-return  to 
town,  you  had  better  not  mention  anything — to  quote  John* 
eon — of  Benson's  spiflicatiou." 

"Certainly  not,  sir." 

Berry  retired,  saying  to  himself,  "  What  I  like,  is  to  con- 
fabulate with  educated  people.  You  always  learn  something 
new  from  them."  And  he  drew  forth  his  pocket-Johnson  that 
he  might  commit  the  new  words  he  had  learnt  to  memory. 

The  wise  youth's  hint  had  the  desired  effect  on  Richard. 

He  dashed  off  a  hasty  letter  by  Tom  to  Belthorpe,  and, 
mounting  his  horse,  galloped  to  the  Bellingham  station. 

Sir  Austin  was  sitting  down  to  a  quiet  early  dinner  at  his 
hotel,  when  the  Hope  of  Raynham  burst  into  his  room. 

The  baronet  was  not  angry  with  his  son.  On  the  contrary, 
for  he  was  singularly  just  and  self-accusing  while  pride  was 
not  up  in  arms,  he  had  been  thinking  all  day  after  the  receipt 
of  Benson's  letter  that  he  was  deficient  in  cordiality,  and  did 
not,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  anxiety,  make  himself  suffi- 
ciently his  son's  companion  :  was  not  enough,  as  he  strove  to 
be,  mother  and  father  to  him;  preceptor  and  friend;  previsor 
and  associate.  He  had  not  to  ask  his  conscience  where  he  had 
lately  been  to  blame  towards  the  System.  He  had  slunk 
away  from  Raynham  in  the  very  crisis  of  the  Magnetic  Age, 
and  this  young  woman  of  the  parish  (as  Benson  had  termed 
sweet  Lucy  in  his  letter)  was  the  consequence. 

Yes  !  pride  and  sensitiveness  were  his  chief  foes,  and  he 
TTould  trample  on  them.  To  begin,  he  embraced  his  son :  hard 
upon  an  Englishman  at  any  time — doubly  so  to  one  so  shame- 
faced at  emotion  in  cool  blood,  as  it  were.  It  gave  him  a 
strange  pleasure,  nevertheless.  And  the  youth  seemed  to 
answer  to  it;  he  was  excited.  Was  his  love,  then,  commenc- 
ing to  correspond  with  his  father's  as  in  those  intimate  days 
before  the  Blossoming  Season  ? 


KICHARD  HEARS  A  SERMON.  157 

But  when  Richard,  inarticuhite  at  fii-st  in  his  haste,  cried 
out,  "  My  dear,  dear  father  !  You  are  safe  !  I  feared — Yoti 
are  better,  sir  ?  Thank  God  !"  Sir  Austin  stood  away  from 
him. 

"  Safe  ?"  he  said.    "  What  has  alarmed  you  ?" 

Instead  of  replying,  Richard  dropped  into  a  chair,  and 
seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  muruiui-ing  again  that  he 
thanked  God. 

Sir  Austin  took  a  seat,  and  waited  for  his  son  to  rxplain. 

"  Those  doctors  are  such  fools  !"  Richard  broke  out.  "  1 
was  sure  they  were  wrong.  They  don't  know  headache  from 
apoplexy.  It's  worth  the  ride,  sir,  to  see  you.  You  left 
Raynham  so  suddenly — But  you  are  well !  It  was  not  an 
attack  of  real  apoplexy  ?" 

His  father's  brows  contorted,  and  he  said,  ^o,  it  was  not. 
Richard  pursued : 

"  If  you  were  ill,  I  couldn't  come  too  soon,  though,  if 
coroner's  inquests  sat  on  horses,  those  doctors  would  be 
found  guilty  of  mare-slaughter.  Cassandra  '11  be  knocked 
up.  I  was  too  early  for  the  train  at  Bellingham,  and  I 
wouldn't  wait.  She  did  the  distance  in  four  houi's  and 
three-quarters.     Pretty  good,  sir,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  It  has  given  you  appetite  for  dinner,  I  hope,"  said  the 
baronet,  not  so  well  pleased  to  find  that  it  was  not  simple 
obedience  that  had  brought  the  youth  to  him  in  such  haste. 

"I'm  ready,"  replied  Richard.  "I  shall  be  in  time  to 
return  by  the  last  train  to-night.  I  will  leave  Cassandra  in 
your  charge  for  a  rest." 

His  father  quietly  helped  him  to  soup,  which  he  com. 
menccd  gobbling  with  an  eagerness  that  might  pass  for 
appetite. 

"  All  well  at  Raynham  ?"  said  the  baronet. 

"  Quite,  sir." 

"Nothing  new  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"  The  same  as  when  I  left  ?" 

**  No  change  whatever  !" 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back  to  the  old  place,"  said  the 
baronet.  "  My  stay  in  town  has  certainly  been  profitable. 
I  have  made  some  pleasant  acquaintances  who  may  probably 
favour  us  with  a  visit  there  in  the  late  autumn — people  you 
may  be  pleased  to  know.  They  are  very  anxious  to  see 
Raynham." 


158  THE  onnr.AL  of  niciiAnn  fevkurl. 

"I  love  the  old  plai-o,"  critd  Kichard.  "I  novcr  wish  to 
leave  it." 

"Why,  boy,  befoi-e  I  left  you  ■were  constantly  begp^ing  to 
see  town." 

"  Was  I,  sir  ?  How  odd  !  Well !  I  don't  want  to  remain 
here.     I've  seen  enough  of  it." 

"  How  did  you  find  your  way  to  me  ?" 

Richard  laughed,  and  related  his  bewildei-ment  at  the 
miles  of  brick,  and  the  noise,  and  the  troops  of  people,  con- 
cluding, "  There's  no  place  like  home  !" 

The  baronet  watched  his  symptomatic  brilliant  eyes,  and 
favoured  him  with  a  double-dealing  sentence — 

"To  anchor  the  heart  by  rtiv  object  ere  we  have  half  tra- 
versed the  world,  is  youth's  f  'olishness,  my  son.  lleverenco 
time  !     A  better  maxim  that  than  your  Horatian." 

"  He  knows  all  !"  thought  Richard,  and  instantly  drew 
avFay  leagues  from  his  father,  and  threw  up  fortifications 
round  his  love  and  himself. 

Dinner  over,  Richard  looked  hurriedly  at  his  watch,  and 
said,  with  much  briskness,  *'  I  shall  just  be  in  time,  sir,  if 
we  walk.     Will  you  come  wnth  me  to  the  station  ?" 

The  baronet  did  not  answer. 

Richard  was  going  to  repeat  the  question,  but  found  his 
father's  eyes  fixed  on  him  so  meaningly  that  he  wavered, 
and  played  with  his  empty  glass. 

"  I  think  we  will  have  a  little  more  claret,"  said  the 
baronet. 

Claret  was  brought,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

The  baronet  then  drew  within  arm's-reach  of  his  son,  and 
began : 

"  I  am  not  aware  what  you  may  have  thought  of  me, 
Richard,  during  the  years  we  have  lived  together ;  and  in- 
deed I  have  never  been  in  a  hurry  to  be  known  to  you ;  and, 
if  I  had  died  before  my  work  was  done,  I  should  not  have 
complained  at  losing  half  my  reward,  in  hearing  you  thank 
me.  Perhaps,  as  it  is,  I  never  may.  Everything,  save 
Belfishness,  has  its  recompense.  I  shall  be  content  if  you 
prosper." 

He  fetched  a  breath  and  continued  :  "  You  had  in  your 
infancy  a  great  loss."  Father  and  son  coloured  simultane- 
ously. "  To  make  that  good  to  you  I  chose  to  isolate  myself 
from  the  world,  and  devote  myself  entirely  to  your  welfare ; 


MCIIAED  HEARS  A  SERMON.  15P 

and  I  think  it  is  not  vanity  that  tells  me  now  that  the  son  1 
liave  reared  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  of  God's  creatures. 
J3ut  for  that  very  renson  you  are  open  to  be  tempted  the 
most,  and  to  sink  the  deepest.  It  was  the  first  of  the  angels 
who  made  the  road  to  hell." 

He  paused  again.     Richard  fingered  at  his  watch. 

"  In  our  House,  my  son,  there  is  peculiar  blood.  We  go 
to  wreck  very  easily.  It  sounds  like  superstition  ;  I  cannot 
but  think  we  are  tiied  as  most  men  are  not.  1  see  it  in  us 
all.  And  you,  my  son,  ai-e  compounded  of  two  races.  Tour 
passions  are  violent.  You  have  had  a  taste  of  revenge.  You 
have  seen,  in  a  small  way,  that  the  pound  of  flesh  draws 
livers  of  blood.  But  there  is  now  in  you  another  power. 
You  are  mounting  to  the  table-land  of  life,  where  mimio 
battles  are  changed  to  real  ones.  And  you  come  upon  it 
laden  equally  with  force  to  create  and  to  destroy."  He  de- 
liberated to  announce  the  intelligence,  with  deep  meaning: 
•'  Thei-e  are  women  in  the  world,  my  son  !  " 

The  young  man's  heart  galloped  back  to  Raynham. 

The  baronet  gravely  repeated  his  last  sentence, 

"  It  is  when  you  encounter  them  that  you  are  thoroughly 
on  trial.  It  is  when  you  know  them  that  life  is  either  a 
mockery  to  you,  or,  as  some  find  it,  a  gift  of  blessedness. 
They  are  our  ordeal.  Love  of  any  human  object  is  the 
soul's  ordeal ;  and  they  are  ours,  loving  them,  or  not." 

The  young  man  heard  the  wliistle  of  the  train.  He  saw 
the  moon-lighted  wood,  and  the  vision  of  his  beloved.  He 
could  barely  hold  himself  down  and  listen. 

"I  believe,"  the  baronet  spoke  with  little  of  the  cheerful- 
ness of  belief,  "  good  women  exist." 

Oh,  if  he  knew  Lucy  ! 

"  But,"  and  the  baronet  gazed  on  Richard  intently,  "  it  is 
given  to  very  few  to  meet  them  on  the  thi-oshold — I  may  say, 
to  none.  We  find  them  after  hard  buffeting,  and  iisually, 
when  we  find  the  one  fitted  for  us,  our  madness  has  mis- 
shnped  our  destiny,  our  lot  is  cast.  For  women  are  not  the 
end,  but  the  moans,  of  life.  In  youth  we  think  them  the 
former,  and  thousands,  wlio  have  not  even  the  excuse  of 
youth,  select  a  mate — or  worse — with  that  sole  view.  I 
believe  women  punish  us  for  so  perverting  their  uses.  They 
punish  Society." 

The  baronet  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  as  his  mind  travelled 
into  consequences. 


100  THE  ORDF.AL  OF  RirilAUn  FKVKKF.T* 

'  Our  most  diliETPiit.  pupil  learns  not  so  much  as  an  earnest 
ti>ael)ci",'  says  the  Pii-GRIm's  Scrip  ;  and  i^ir  Austin,  in 
Hchooling  himself  to  speak  with  moderation  of  women,  waa 
boginninq-  to  get  a  glimpse  of  their  side  of  the  case. 

Cold  Blood  now  touched  on  love  to  Hot  Blood. 

Cold  Blood  said,  "  It  is  a  passion  coming  in  the  order  of 
nature,  the  ripe  i'ruit  of  our  animal  heing." 

Hot  Blood  felt:  "It  is  a  divinity!  All  that  is  v^'orth 
living  for  in  the  world." 

Cold  Blood  said  :  "  It  is  a  fever  which  tests  our  strength, 
and  too  often  leads  to  perdition." 

Hot  Blood  felt:  "  Lead  whither  it  will,  I  follow  it." 

Cold  Blood  said:  "It  is  a  name  men  and  women  are  much 
in  the  habit  of  employing  to  sanctify  their  appetites." 

Hot  Blood  felt :  "  It  is  woi-ship  ;  religion;  life  1  " 

And  so  the  two  parallel  lines  ran  on. 

The  baronet  became  more  jjcrsonal : 

"  You  know  my  love  for  you,  my  son.  The  extent  of  it  you 
cannot  know;  but  you  must  know  that  it  is  something  very 
deep,  and — I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  it — but  a  father  must 
sometimes  petition  for  gratitude,  since  the  only  true  expres- 
sion of  it  is  his  son's  moral  good.  If  you  care  for  my  love, 
or  love  me  in  return,  aid  me  with  all  your  energies  to  keep 
you  wdiat  I  have  made  you,  and  guard  you  from  the  snai'es 
besetting  you.  It  was  in  my  hands  once.  It  is  ceasing  to 
be  so.  Remember,  my  son,  what  my  love  is.  It  is  different, 
I  fear,  with  most  fathers  :  but  I  am  bound  up  in  your  wel- 
fare :  Avhat  you  do  affects  me  vitally.  You  will  take  no 
step  that  is  not  intimate  with  my  happiness,  or  my  misery. 
And  I  have  had  great  disappointments,  my  son." 

So  far  it  was  well.  Richard  loved  his  father,  and  even  in 
his  frenzied  state  he  could  not  without  emotion  hear  him 
thus  speak. 

Unhappily,  the  baronet,  who  by  some  fatality  never  could 
Bee  when  he  was  winning  the  battle,  thought  proper  in  his 
wisdom  to  water  the  dryness  of  his  sermon  with  a  little 
iocoseness,  on  the  subject  of  young  men  fancying  themselves 
m  love,  and,  when  they  were  raw  and  green,  absolutely 
wanting  to  be — that  most  awful  thing,  which  the  wisest  and 
strongest  of  men  undertake  in  hesitation  and  after  self- 
mortification  and  penance — married!  He  sketched  the 
Foolish  Young   Fellow — the  object  of  general  ridicule  and 


RICBAED  HEARS  A  SERMON.  161 

covert  contempt.  He  sketched  the  Woman — the  strange 
thing-  made  in  our  image,  and  with  all  our  faculties — passing 
to  the  rule  of  one  who  in  taking  her  proved  that  he  could  not 
rule  himself,  and  had  no  knowledge  of  her  save  as  a  choice 
morsel  which  he  would  burn  the  whole  world,  and  himself  in 
tlio  bargain,  to  possess.  He  harped  upon  the  Foolish  Young 
F<jUow,  till  the  foolish  young  fellow  felt  his  skin  tingle  and 
was  half  suffocated  with  shame  and  rage. 

After  this,  the  baronet  might  be  as  wise  as  he  pleased  :  he 
had  quite  undone  his  work.  He  might  analyze  Love  and 
anatomize  Woman.  He  might  accord  to  her  her  due  position, 
and  paint  her  fair :  he  might  be  shrewd,  jocose,  gentle, 
pathetic,  wonderfully  wise  :  he  spoke  to  deaf  ears. 

Closing  his  sermon  with  the  question,  softly  uttered: 
"  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me,  Richard  ?  "  and  hoping  for 
a  confession,  and  a  thorough  re-establishment  of  confidence, 
the  callous  answer  struck  him  cold  :  "  I  have  not." 

The  baronet  relapsed  in  his  chair,  and  made  diagrams  of 
his  fingers. 

Richard  turned  his  back  on  further  dialogue  by  going  to 
the  window.  In  the  sectio'i  of  sky  over  the  street  twinkled 
two  or  three  stars  ;  shining  faintly,  feeling  the  moon.  The 
moon  was  rising  :  the  woods  were  lifting  up  to  her  :  his  star 
of  the  woods  would  be  there.  A  bed  of  moss  set  about 
flowers  in  a  basket  under  him  breathed  to  his  nostril  of  the 
woodland  keenly,  and  filled  him  with  delirious  longing. 

A  succession  of  great  sighs  brought  his  father's  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  You  have  nothing  you  could  say  to  me,  my  son  ?  Toll 
me,  Richard  !  Remember,  there  is  no  home  for  the  soul 
Avhere  dwells  a  shadow  of  unti-uth  !  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  sir,"  the  young  man  replied,  meeting  him 
with  the  full  orbs  of  his  eyes. 

The  baronet  withdrew  his  hand,  and  paced  the  room. 

At  last  it  grew  impossible  for  Richard  to  control  hia 
impatience,  and  he  said:  "  Uo  you  intend  me  to  stay  here, 
sir  ?     Am  I  not  to  return  to  Raynham  at  all  to-night  ?  " 

The  liaronct  was  again  falsely  jocular: 

"  What  ?  and  catch  the  train  after  giving  it  ten  minutes' 
start  P  " 

"  Cassandra  will  take  me,"  said  the  young  man  earnestly. 
"  I  needn't  ride  her  haj'd,  sir.     Or  perhaps   you  would  lend 

M 


1G2  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICIIAKn  FEVKUKL. 

me  your  Winkolnod  ?  I  should  1)0  down  with  him  in  little 
better  than  three  hours." 

"  Even  then,  you  know,  the  park-gates  would  be  locked." 

"  Well,  I  could  stable  hira  in  the  village.  Uowling  knows 
the  horse,  and  would  treat  him  properly.  May  I  have  him, 
sir  ?  " 

The  cloud  cleared  off  Richard's  face  as  he  asked.  At  least, 
if  he  missed  his  love  that  night  he  would  be  near  her, 
breathing  the  same  air,  marking  what  star  was  above  her 
bed-chamber,  hearing  the  hushed  night-talk  of  the  trees 
about  her  dwelling:  looking  on  the  distances  that  were  like 
hope  half  fulfilled  and  a  bodily  presence  bright  as  Hcsper, 
since  he  knew  her.  There  were  two  swallows  under  the 
eaves  shadowing  Lucy's  chamber- windows  :  two  swallows, 
mates  in  one  nest,  blissful  birds,  who  twittered  and  cheep- 
cheeped  to  the  sole-lying  beauty  in  her  bed.  Around  these 
birds  the  lover's  heart  revolved,  he  knew  not  why.  He  asso- 
ciated them  with  all  his  close-veiled  dreams  of  happiness. 
Seldom  a  morning  passed  when  he  did  not  watch  them  leave 
the  nest  on  their  breakfast-flight,  bu.sy  in  the  happy  stillness 
of  dawn.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  if  he  could  be  at  Rayn- 
ham  to  see  them  in  to-morrow's  dawn  he  would  be  compen- 
sated for  his  incalculable  loss  of  to-night:  he  would  forgive 
and  love  his  father,  London,  the  life,  the  world.  Just  to  see 
those  purple  backs  and  white  breasts  flash  out  into  the  quiet 
morning  air  !     He  wanted  no  more. 

The  baronet's  trifling  had  placed  this  enormous  boon 
within  the  young  man's  visionary  grasp. 

He  still  went  on  trying  the  temper  of  poor  Tantalus — 

"  You.  know  there  would  be  nobody  ready  for  you  at  Rayn- 
ham.     It  is  unfair  to  disturb  the  maids." 

Richard  overrode  every  objection. 

"  Well,  then,  my  son,"  said  the  baronet,  preserving  his 
half- jocular  air,  "  I  must  tell  you  that  it  is  my  wish  to  have 
you  in  town." 

"  Then  you  have  not  been  ill  at  all,  sir !  "  cried  Richard, 
as  in  his  despair  he  seized  the  whole  plot. 

"  I  have  been  as  well  as  you  could  have  desired  me  to  be," 
said  his  father. 

"  Why  did  they  lie  to  me  ?  "  the  young  man  wrathfully 
exclaimed. 

'il  think,  Richard,  you  can  best  answer  that,"  rejoined 
3ir  Austin,  kindly  severe. 


THE  ArPROACnES  OF  FEVER.  16S 

Dread  of  being  siqnalized  as  the  Foolish  Foung  Fellow 
prevented  Richard  from  expostulating  further.  Sir  Austin 
saw  him  grinding  his  passion  into  powder  for  future 
explosion,  and  thought  it  best  to  leave  him  for  awhile. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

INDICATES  THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER. 

For  three  weeks  Richard  had  to  remain  in  town  and 
endure  the  teachings  of  the  Sj'stem  in  a  new  atmosphere. 
He  had  to  sit  and  listen  to  men  of  science  who  came  to 
renew  their  intimacy  with  his  father,  and  whom  of  all  men 
his  father  wished  him  to  respect  and  study ;  practically 
scientific  men  being,  in  the  baronet's  estimation,  the  only 
minds  thoroughly  mated  and  enviable.  He  had  to  endure 
an  introduction  to  the  Grandisons,  and  meet  the  eyes  of 
his  kind,  haunted  as  he  was  by  the  Foolish  Young  Fellow. 
The  idea  that  he  might  by  any  chance  be  identified  with 
him  held  the  poor  youth  in  silent  subjection.  And  it  was 
horrible.  For  it  was  a  continued  outrage  on  the  fair  image 
he  had  in  his  heart.  The  notion  of  the  world  laughing  at 
him  because  he  loved  sweet  Lucy  stung  him  to  momentary 
frenzies,  and  developed  premature  misanthropy  in  his  spirit. 
Also  the  System  desired  to  show  him  whither  young  women 
of  the  parish  lead  us,  and  he  was  dragged  about  at  night- 
time to  see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  darkness,  after  the 
fashion  prescribed  to  Mr.  Thompson ;  how  they  danced  and 
ogled  down  the  high  road  of  perdition.  But  from  this  sight 
possibly  the  teacher  learnt  more  than  his  pupil,  since  we  find 
him  seriously  asking  his  meditative  hours,  in  the  Note-book : 
"Wherefore  Wild  Oats  are  only  of  one  gender?  "  a  question 
certainly  not  suggested  to  him  at  Raynham  ;  and  agjiin — 
''Whether  men  might  not  be  attaching  too  rigid  an  import- 
ance ?  .  .  ."  to  a  subject  with  a  dotted  tail  apparently,  for 
he  gives  it  no  other  in  the  Note-book.  But,  as  I  appi'cliend, 
he  had  come  to  plead  in  behalf  of  women  here,  and  had 
deduced  something  from  positive  ol)scrvation.  To  Richard 
the  scenes  he  witnessed  were  sti'angc  wild  pictures,  likely  if 

M  2 


](^i  TIIF,  ORDEAL  OF  RirilAnn  FF.Vr.HF.L. 

UTivtliing  to    have   inorcascd    his    niisaiitliropy,    but   for  his 
love. 

Mrs.  Gi-andison  nppoared  to  be  in  raptures  with  the  son  of 
a  8}Rtom.  What  her  daughters  tlionght  of  a  j'onng  gentle- 
man wlio  did  notliing  but  frown  and  bite  his  lips  in  their 
(.•(>ni]iany  may  be  imagined.  With  Carola,  however,  he  got 
on  butter. 

Riding  in  the  park  one  morning,  Carola  beheld  her 
intended  galloping  furiously  down  the  Row,  and  left  her 
sister  Clementina's  side  to  waylay  him.  He  pulled  up 
smartly,  and  this  young  person's  frank  accost  was — 

"  I  say  !  are  you  afraid  of  girls  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  and  did  his  salute  laughing,  upon  which 
she  said  — 

"  No,  I  see  you're  not.  My  sisters  all  say  you  are.  I 
should  think  you  were  not  afi-aid  of  anything.  A  man 
afi-aid  of  girls  !     I  never  heard  the  like  !  " 

"  Well !  "  said  Richard,  "  at  all  events  I'm  not  afraid  of 
you.     Are  you  a  girl  ?  " 

Carola  immediately  became  pensive. 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed,  striping  her  pony's  ears  with  her  whip, 
"  I'm  afraid  I  am  !  I  used  to  keep  hoping  once  that  I  wasn't. 
I'm  afraid  it's  no  use."  She  seriously  shook  her  curls,  and 
looked  up  at  him.     Richard  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  But  what  do  you  want  to  be  ?  "  he  asked,  scrutinizing 
the  comical  young  person. 

"  A  boy,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Carola,  and  pouted  proudly,  as 
if  the  wish  had  raised  her  out  of  her  sex.  At  this  Richard 
laughed  again  and  took  to  the  young  woman.  They  trotted 
on  in  company.  Within  five  minutes  he  had  all  the  secrets 
of  the  family. 

"  Wlien  I  like  anybody,"  said  Carola,  "  I  always  speak  out 
everything  I  know." 

"  And  you  like  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  What  do  you  think  they  call  your  father  ? — 
The  Griffin  !  That's  what  they  call  him.  I  don't  know  why. 
I  like  him.  Do  you  know  who  gave  me  this  pony  ?  He  did, 
to  be  sure  !  He  bouglit  it  the  day  after  my  birthday.  He's 
fonder  of  me  than  you  are.  I  like  fathers  better  than 
mothers.  My  pa  and  raa  don't  agree.  I  say  !  what  may  1 
call  you  ?  " 

Richai'd    gave    her    permission    to    call    him   what    glie 
pleased. 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER.  165 

''  Well,  then,  Richard — if  you  don't  really  mind.  What  a 
nice  fellow  you  are,  and  we  all  thought  you  so  nasty  !  I 
was  going  to  say,  I  wish  they'd  let  us  ride  our  ponies  stride- 
ways  ?  " 

Richard,  with  all  the  muscles  of  his  face  in  play,  lamented 
the  severe  restriction. 

"  It's  so  much  handier,"  Carola  continued.  "  Look  at 
this  !  all  one  side  ! — I  used  to  when  I  was  little,  though. 
Not  here,  you  know, — in  the  country.  And  ma  knew  of  it. 
She  didn't  interfere.  She  wanted  me  to  be  a  boy.  If  I  call 
you  Richard,  you'll  call  me  Carl,  won't  you  ?  That's  the 
German  for  Charles.  In  the  country  the  boys  call  mo 
Charley.     Can't  I  ride  slapping  P  " 

"  Capital  !  "  said  Richard.     "  Let's  have  a  gallop." 

After  a  short  heat,  Carola  slackened  her  pace  to  re- 
commence : 

"  Do  you  know  why  none  of  my  sisters'll  have  you  ? 
Because  they've  all  got  lovers  themselves — all  but  me. 
And  they  have  letters  from  them,  too.,  and  write  back.  I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  say.  Ma  would  let  us  have  you, 
but  she  wouldn't  let  us  have  anybody  else." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Richard. 

"  Yes,"  Carola  nodded.  "  Ma  says  you  are  going  to  be  a 
hero.  One  of  us  is  to  be  man-ied  to  you.  Do  you  call  me 
good-looking  ?  " 

Richard  complimented  her  by  saying  he  thought  she 
would  grow  to  be  a  very  handsome  chajj. 

Carola  assured  him  she  could  not  think  it.  "  My  nose 
turns  up,  and  my  cheeks  are  so  red.  Pa  calls  them  cabbage- 
roses.  I  don't  mind  the  '  roses,'  but  I  can't  bear  the  '  cab- 
bage '  !     Why  is  it  you  laugh  so  ?  " 

"  Because  you're  such  a  funny  fellow,  Carl." 

"  Am  I  ?      Do  you  like  funny  fellows  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  The  funny  fellows  are  always  my  best 
friends." 

"  Why,  now,  that's  just  like  me,"  exclaimed  Carola. 
"We're  just  alike.  I  hate  people  who  mope.  I  thought 
you  moped  at  first.  I  suppose  you  were  only  a  little  put 
out — weren't  you  ?  " 

"  Only  a  little,"  sighed  poor  Richard. 

"  I  declare  if  you  don't  talk  exactly  like  my  sister  Glem  I 
—She's  moping  in  love  you  know, — Richard  I  " 


IOC)  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RTCnARD  FEVERRL. 

"  Well,  old  friend  ?  " 

"  Ydu  don't  lu'iir  nic.  Why  are  yon  so  sad  in  a  ininnte  ? 
Why  do  you  call  me  '  old  friend  '  ?  " 

"  Because  " — he  bent  down  and  put  his  hand  on  her  neck 
— "  because,  because — well  !  why  ? — I  suppose  it's  because  I 
like  you  better  than  any  of  my  new  friends." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  cried  the  joyful  Carola,  clapping  her  hands 
"  That's  right  !  I'm  so  glad.  Mind  you  always  do, 
Richard  ! — won't  you  ?  And  I  will  you.  Are  you  foud  of 
theatres  ?  " 

llichard  informed  her  he  had  never  been  to  one  in  his 
life,  which  caused  lively  astonishment  to  Miss  Carl. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  what  a  beautiful  lady  is  if  you've 
never  becTi  to  a  theatre,"  she  said  authoritatively. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do  !  "  replied  the  lover, 

"  There  jou  are  again — just  like  Clem  ! — Are  you  in  love, 
too  ?  Oh,  I  hope  it  isn't  with  Clem  !  She'll  never  have 
you.  I  heard  her  say  she'd  die  first.  I  did  indeed  ! — It's  a 
secret — his  name's  Walter.  I've  seen  her  letters  :  Lieutenant 
Papworth,  in  the  Hussars.  She  begins  them — '  Dearest, 
deaiest  Walter ! ' — and  they  take  her  hours  to  write — I 
shouldn't  wi'ite  like  that.  I  should  say,  '  Dear  Richard  !  I 
love  you.  I  hope  we  shall  be  married  soon.  Your  faithful 
Carl.'     That  would  do-  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

Richard  looked  down  upon  her  with  something  like  veri- 
table affection.  Almost  every  turn  in  the  artless  little  maid's 
prattle  touched  a  new  mood  in  him,  and  beguiled  away  his 
melancholy. 

"  That  would  just  do,"  he  said.  "  All  we  want  is  to  be 
married  soon !  " 

Carola  flushed  up  and  was  quiet.  Clementina  cantered  to 
join  them,  bowing  distantly  to  Richard,  as  if  anything  like 
familiarity  involved  the  fate  of  her  adored  hussar. 

After  this  conversation  with  the  daughter  of  a  System, 
Richai-d  informed  his  father  that  he  thought  girls  were  very 
like  boys. 

"  1  think  they  are,"  said  his  father.  "  I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  the  subsequent  immense  distinction  is  less  one 
of  sex  than  of  education.  They  are  drilled  into  hypo- 
crites." 

"  WTaen  they  much  prefer  riding  strideways,"  said  Richard^ 
and  repeated  some  of  his  young  friend's  remarks,  which  hia 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVER.  1C7 

father  evidently  thought  charming,  and  chuckled  over  fre- 
quently.    A  girl  so  like  a  boy  was  quite  his  ideal  of  a  girl. 

Certain  sweet  little  notes  from  Lucy  sustained  the  lover 
during  the  first  two  weeks  of  exile.  Suddenly  they  ceased ; 
and  now  Richard  fell  into  such  despondency  that  his  father 
in  alarm  had  to  take  measures  to  hasten  their  return  to 
Ra^^nliam.  At  the  close  of  the  third  week  Berry  laid  a  pair 
of  letters,  bearing  the  Raynham  post-mark,  on  the  break- 
fast-table, and,  after  reading  one  attentively,  the  baronet 
asked  his  son  if  he  was  inclined  to  quit  the  metropolis. 

"  For  Raynham,  sir  ?  "  cried  Richard,  and  relapsed,  say- 
ing, "  As  you  will !  "  aware  that  he  had  given  a  glimpse  of 
the  Foolish  Toung  Fellow. 

Berry  accordingly  received  orders  to  make  arrangements 
for  their  instant  return  to  Raynham. 

The  letter  Sir  Austin  lifted  his  head  from  to  bespeak  his 
son's  wishes  Avas  a  composition  of  the  wise  youth  Adrian's, 
and  ran  thus : 

"Benson  is  doggedly  recoveinng.  He  requires  great  in- 
demnities. Happy  when  a  faithful  fool  is  the  main  sufferer 
in  a  household  !  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  a  faithful  fool 
is  the  best  servant  of  great  schemes.  Benson  is  now  a  piece 
of  history.  I  tell  him  that  this  is  indemnity  enough,  and 
that  the  sweet  Muse  usually  insists  upon  gentlemen  being 
half-flayed  before  she  will  condescend  to  notice  them  ;  but 
Benson,  I  regret  to  say,  ig-nobly  rejects  the  comfort  so  fine  a 
reflection  should  offer,  and  had  rather  keep  his  skin  and  live 
opaque.  Heroism  seems  partly  a  matter  of  training.  Faith- 
ful folly  is  Benson's  nature:  the  rest  has  been  thrust  upon 
him. 

"  The  young  person  has  resigned  the  neighbourhood.  1 
had  an  int(^rview  with  the  fair  Papist  myself,  and  also  with 
the  man  Blaize.  They  were  both  very  sensible,  though  one 
swore  and  the  other  sighed.  She  is  pretty.  I  hope  she 
does  not  paint.  As  to  her  appearance  she  would  aflecfc 
Adam  more  than  me  ;  but,  as  I  did  not  see  her  as  Eve  was 
seen,  I  cannot  tell  how  the  likeness  may  be.  I  can  affirm 
that  her  legs  are  strong,  for  she  walks  to  Bellingham  twice 
a  week  to  take  her  Scai-let  bath,  when,  having  confessed  and 
been  made  clean  by  the  Romish  unction,  she  walks  back 
the  brisker,  of  which  my  ProLestant  muscular  system  is  yot 


1G8  THE  OHUKAL  OF  R1CI!AI{D  KKVERKL- 

aware.  It  was  on  the  roail  to  Bclliii'^liain  I  eni^aged  her. 
8ho  is  well  in  the  matter  of  liair.  Madam  Godiva  might 
challenge  her,  it  would  be  a  fair  match.  Has  it  never  struck 
you  that  Woman  is  nearer  the  vegetable  than  Man  ? — 
Mr.  Blaize  intends  her  for  his  son — a  junction  that  every 
lover  of  fairy  mythology  must  desire  to  see  consummated. 
Young  Tom  is  heir  to  all  the  agrc'mens  of  the  Beast.  The 
maids  of  Lobourne  say  (I  hear)  that  he  is  a  very  Proculus 
among  them.  Possibly  the  envious  men  say  it  for  the 
maids.  Beauty  does  not  speak  bad  grammar — and  alto- 
getlier  she  is  better  out  of  the  way.  Allow  me  to  congi-atu- 
late  you  on  having  found  Richai'd's  unripe  half  in  good  con- 
dition, and  rosy.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  the  original  man 
again,  to  whom  his  Tutor's  salute  and  benediction." 

The  other  letter  was  from  Lady  Blandish,  a  lady's  letter, 
and  said : 

"  I  have  fulfilled  your  commission  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
and  heartily  sad  it  has  made  me.  She  is  indeed  very  much 
above  her  station — pity  that  it  is  so  !  She  is  almost  beauti- 
ful— quite  beautiful  at  times,  and  not  in  any  way  what  you 
have  been  led  to  fancy.  The  poor  child  had  no  story  to  tell. 
I  have  again  seen  her,  and  talked  with  her  for  an  hour  as 
kindly  as  I  could.  I  could  gather  nothing  more  than  we 
know.  It  is  just  a  woman's  history  as  it  invai-iably  com- 
mences (not  with  all — Is  it  fortunate  for  us,  or  therevei-se  ?) 
Richard  is  the  god  of  her  idolatry.  She  will  renounce  him, 
and  sacrifice  herself  for  his  sake.  Are  we  so  bad  ?  She 
asked  me  what  she  was  to  do.  She  would  do  whatever  was 
imposed  upon  her— all  but  pretend  to  love  another,  and  that 
she  never  would,  and,  I  believe,  never  will.  You  know  I  am 
sentimental,  and  I  confess  we  dropped  a  few  tears  together. 
Her  uncle  has  sent  her  for  the  winter  to  the  institution 
where  it  appears  she  was  educated,  and  where  they  are  very 
fond  of  her  and  want  to  keep  her,  which  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  they  were  to  do.  The  man  is  a  good  sort  of  man. 
She  was  entrusted  to  him  by  her  father,  and  he  never  inter- 
feres with  her  religion,  and  is  very  scrupulous  about  all  that 
pertains  to  it,  though,  as  he  says,  he  is  a  Christian  himself. 
1ji  the  Spring  (but  the  poor  child  does  not  know  this)  she  is 
to   come  back,  and  be  mairied  to  his  lout  of  a  son.     I  am 


THE  APPEOACnES  OF  FEVER.  1G9 

determined  to  prevent  that.  May  I  not  reckon  on  your  pro- 
mise to  aid  me  ?  When  you  see  her,  I  am  sure  you  will. 
It  would  be  sacrilege  to  look  on  and  permit  such  a  thing. 
You  know,  they  are  cousins.  She  asked  me,  where  in  the 
world  was  there  one  like  Richard  ?  What  could  I  answer  ? 
They  were  your  own  words,  and  spoken  with  a  depth  of 
conviction  !  I  hope  he  is  really  calm.  I  shudder  to  think 
of  him  when  he  comes,  and  discovers  what  I  have  been 
doing.  I  hope  I  have  been  really  doing  riglit !  A  good 
deed,  you  say,  never  dies ;  but  we  cannot  always  know — 1 
must  rely  on  you.  Yes,  it  is,  I  should  think,  easy  to  suffer 
martyrdom  when  one  is  sure  of  one's  cause  !  but  then  one 
'must  be  sure  of  it.  I  have  done  nothing  lately  but  to  repeat 
to  myself  that  saying  of  yours,  No.  54,  C.  7,  P.S. ;  and  it  has 
consoled  me,  I  cannot  say  why,  except  that  all  wisdom  con- 
soles, whether  it  applies  directly  or  not : 

"  '  For  this  reason  so  many  fall  from  God,  who  have  attained 
to  Him  ;  that  they  cling  to  Ilim  loith  their  Weakness,  not  ivith 
their  Strength.^ 

"  I  like  to  know  of  what  you  were  thinking  when  you 
composed  this  or  that  saying — what  suggested  it.  May  not 
one  be  admitted  to  inspect  the  machinery  of  wisdom  ?  I 
feel  curious  to  know  how  thoughts —rea/  thoughts — are  born. 
Not  that  I  hope  to  win  the  secret.  Here  is  the  beginning 
of  one  (but  we  poor  women  can  never  put  together  even  two 
of  the  three  ideas  which  you  say  go  to  form  a  thought)  : 
'  When  a  wise  man  makes  a  false  step,  will  he  not  go  farther 
than  a  fool  ?'     It  has  just  flitted  through  mo. 

"  I  cannot  get  on  with  Gibbon,  so  wait  your  return  to 
recommence  the  readings.  I  dislike  the  sneering  essence  of 
his  wi'itings.  I  keep  referring  to  his  face,  until  the  dislike 
seems  to  become  personal.  How  different  is  it  with  Words- 
worth !  And  yet  I  cannot  escape  from  the  thought  that  he 
is  always  solemnly  thinking  of  himself  (but  I  do  reverence 
him).  But  this  is  curious  ;  Byron  was  a  greater  egoist,  and 
yet  I  do  not  feel  the  same  with  him.  He  reminds  me  of  a 
beast  of'' the  desert,  savage  and  beautiful ;  and  the  foi'iuei'  is 
what  one  would  imagine  a  superior  donkey  reclaimed  from 
the  heathen  to  be — a  very  superior  donkey,  I  mean,  with 
preat  power  of  speech  and  great  natuial  complacency,  auJ 


170  TIIK  ORDEAL  OF  KICIIAKI)  FP:VE1U:L. 

whose  stubbornness  you  must  admire  as  part  of  his  mission. 
The  worst  is  tluit  no  one  will  imagine  anything'  sublime  in 
a  superior  donkey,  so  my  simile  is  unfair  and  false.  Is  it 
not  strange  ?  I  love  Wordsworth  best,  and  yet  Byron  has 
the  greater  power  over  me.     How  is  that  ?" 

("  Because,"  Sir  Austin  wrote  beside  the  query  in  pencil, 
"  women  are  cowards,  and  succumb  to  Irony  and  Passion, 
rather  than  yield  their  hearts  to  Excellence  and  Nature's 
Inspiration.") 

The  letter  pursued  : 

"  I  have  finished  Boiardo  and  have  taken  up  Borni.  The 
latter  offends  me.  I  suppose  we  women  do  not  really  care  for 
humour.  You  are  right  in  saying  we  have  none  ourselves,  and 
'  cackle'  instead  of  laugh.  It  is  true  (of  me,  at  least)  that 
'  Falstaff  is  only  to  us  an  incorrigible  fat  man.'  I  want  to 
know  what  he  illustrates.  And  Don  Quixote — what  end  can 
be  served  in  making  a  noble  mind  ridiculous  ? — I  hear  you 
say — practical  !  So  it  is.  We  are  very  narrow,  I  know. 
But  we  like  wit — practical  again  !  Or  in  your  words  (when 
I  really  think  they  generally  come  to  my  aid  —  perhaps  it  is 
that  it  is  often  all  your  thought) ;  we  '  prefer  the  rapier 
thrust,  to  the  broad  embrace,  of  Intelligence.'  By  the  way, 
is  there  a  characteristic  in  Mrs.  Grandison  ?  Or  is  she  only 
good  ?  If  so,  how  tired  you  must  be  !  I  hope  Richard  really  i& 
beginning  to  take  an  interest  in  the  child.  I  sincerely  trust 
that  this  young  creature  is  not  so  good  as  her  mother.  I  wish 
indeed  the  experiment  were  well  '  launched  through  the 
surf,'  as  you  do  us  the  honour  to  term  it. 

"  Heigho  !  I  have  given  up  a  season  to  you.  What  is  to 
t)e  my  reward  ?  " 

Something,  no  doubt,  the  baronet  had  in  store  for  her,  and 
possibly  the  lady's  instinct  made  her  meditate  on  the  day 
•when  Richard  should  be  "  launched  through  the  surf "  in 
earnest. 

He  trifled  -with  the  letter  for  some  time,  re-reading  chosen 
passages  as  he  walked  about  the  room,  and  considering  he 
scarce  knew  what.  There  are  ideas  language  is  too  gross 
for,  and  shape  too  arbitrary,  which  come  to  us  and  have 
a  definite  influence  upon  us,  and  yet  we  cannot  fasten  on  the 
filmy  things  and  make  them  visible  and  distinct  to  ourselves, 
much  less  to  others.     Why  did  he  twice  throw  a  look  into 


THE  APPROACHES  OF  FEVEE.  171 

the  glass  in  the  act  of  passing  it?  Why  did  he  for  a 
moment  stand  with  erect  head  facing  it  ?  His  eyes  for  the 
nonce  seemed  little  to  peruse  his  outer  features ;  the  grey- 
gathered  brows,  and  the  wrinkles  much  action  of  them  had 
traced  over  the  circles  half  up  his  high  straight  forehead  ; 
the  iron-grey  hair  that  rose  over  his  forehead  and  fell  away 
in  the  fashion  oF  Richard's  plume.  His  general  appearance 
showed  the  tints  of  years  ;  but  none  of  their  weiglit,  and 
nothing  of  the  dignity  of  his  youth,  was  gone.  It  was  so  far 
satisfactory,  but  his  eyes  were  wide,  as  one  who  looks  at  his 
essential  self  through  the  mask  we  wear.  Perhaps  he  was 
speculating  as  he  looked  on  the  sort  of  aspect  he  presented 
to  the  lady's  discriminative  regard.  Of  her  feelings  he  had 
not  a  suspicion.  But  he  knew  with  what  extraordinary 
lucidity  women  can,  when  it  pleases  them,  and  when  their 
feelings  are  not  quite  boiling  under  the  noonday  sun,  seize 
all  the  sides  of  a  character,  and  put  their  fingers  on  its  weak 
point.  He  was  cognizant  of  the  total  absence  of  the  humor- 
ous in  himself  (the  want  that  most  shut  him  out  from  his 
fellows),  and  perhaps  the  clear-thoughted  intensely  self- 
examining  gentleman  filmily  conceived,  Me  also,  in  common 
with  the  poet,  she  gazes  on  as  one  of  the  superior — gi'ey 
beasts ! 

He  may  have  so  conceived  the  case  ;  he  was  capable  of  that 
great-mindedness,  and  covild  at  times  snatch  very  luminous 
glances  at  the  broad  reflector  which  the  world  of  fact  lying 
outside  our  narrow  compass  holds  up  for  us  to  see  ourselves 
in  when  we  will.  Unhappily,  the  faculty  of  laughter,  which 
is  due  to  this  gift,  was  denied  him ;  and  having  once  seen, 
he,  like  the  companion  of  friend  Balaam,  could  go  no  farther. 
For  a  good  wind  of  laughter  had  relieved  him  of  much  of  the 
blight  of  self-deception,  and  oddness,  and  extravagance;  had 
given  a  healthier  view  of  our  atmosphere  of  life  ;  but  he  had 
it  not. 

Journeying  back  to  Bellingham  in  the  train,  with  the 
heated  brain  and  brilliant  eye  of  his  son  beside  him.  Sir 
Austin  tried  hard  to  feel  infallible,  as  a  man  with  a  System 
should  feel  ;  and  because  he  could  not  do  so,  after  much 
mental  conflict,  he  descended  to  entertain  a  poj-sorial  anragon- 
isin  to  the  young  woman  who  had  stepped  in  Ijctwcou  his 
experiment  and  success.  He  did  not  think  kindly  of  her. 
Lady  Blandish's  encomiums  of  her  behaviour  and  her  beauty 


172  THE  OIIDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

aiinoyod  him.  Fortrotful  that  he  had  in  a  iiioasurc  foi-fcitcd 
his  rii^hts  to  it,  he  took  tlie  coinmon  ground  of  fatlirrs,  and 
demanded,  "Why  ho  was  not  justified  in  doing  all  that  hiy 
in  his  power  to  prevent  his  son  from  casting  himself  away 
upon  the  first  creature  with  a  pretty  face  he  encountered  ?  " 
Delii)erating  thus,  he  lost  the  tenderness  he  should  have  had 
for  his  experiment — the  living,  burning  youth  at  his  elbow, 
and  his  excessive  love  for  him  took  a  rigorous  tone.  It 
appeared  to  him  politic,  reasonable,  and  just,  that  the  uncle 
of  this  young  woman,  "who  had  so  long  nursed  the  prudent 
scheme  of  marrying  her  to  his  son,  should  not  only  not  be 
thwai-ted  in  his  object  but  encouraged  and  even  assisted. 
At  least,  not  thwarted.  Sir  Austin  had  no  glass  before  him 
while  these  ideas  hardened  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  rather 
forgotten  the  letter  of  Lady  Blandish. 

Father  and  sou  were  alone  in  the  railway  carriage.  Both 
were  too  pre-occupied  to  speak.  As  they  neared  Bellingham, 
the  dark  was  filling  the  hollows  of  the  country.  Over  the 
pine-hills  beyond  the  station  a  last  rosy  sti-eak  lingered 
across  a  green  sky.  Richard  eyed  it  while  they  flew  along. 
It  caught  him  forward :  it  seemed  full  of  the  spii-it  of  his 
love,  and  brought  tears  of  mournful  longing  to  his  eyelids. 
The  sad  beauty  of  that  one  spot  in  the  heavens  seemed  to 
call  out  to  his  soul  to  swear  to  his  Lucy's  truth  to  him  :  was 
like  the  sorrowful  visage  of  his  fleur-de-luce,  as  he  called  her, 
appealing  to  him  for  faith.  Tliat  tremulous  tender  way  she 
had  of  half-closing  and  catching  light  on  the  nether-lids, 
when  sometimes  she  looked  up  in  her  lover's  face — a  look  so 
mystic-sweet  it  had  grown  to  be  the  fountain  of  his  dreams  : 
he  saw  it  yonder,  and  his  blood  thrilled. 

Know  you  those  wand-like  touches  of  I  know  not  what, 
before  which  our  grosser  being  melts,  and  we,  much  as  we 
hope  to  be  in  the  Awaking,  stand  etherealized,  ti-embling 
with  new  joy  ?  They  come  but  rarely;  rarely  even  in  love, 
when  we  fondly  think  them  i-evelations.  Mere  sensations 
Vhey  are,  doubtless  :  and  we  rank  for  them  no  higher  in  the 
spiritual  scale  than  so  many  translucent  glorious  polypi  that 
quiver  on  the  shores,  the  hues  of  heaven  running  through 
them.  Yet  in  the  harvest  of  our  days  it  is  something  for 
the  animal  to  have  had  such  mere  fleshly  polypian  experi- 
ences to  look  back  upon,  and  they  give  him  an  horizon — palo 
Bcas  of  luring  spleudoui-.     One  who  has  had  them  (when  thc^ 


THE  ArniOACIIES  OF  FEVEK.  173 

do  not  bound  him)  may  find  the  Isles  of  Bliss  sooner  than 
another.  Sensual  faith  in  the  upper  glories  is  something. 
"  Let  us  remember,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "  that  ISTature, 
though  heathenish,  reaches  at  her  best  to  the  footstool  of  tho 
Highest.  She  is  not  all  dust,  but  a  living  portion  of  the 
spheres.  In  aspiration  it  is  our  error  to  despise  her,  forget- 
ting that  through  Nature  only  can  we  ascend.  Cherished, 
ti'ained,  and  purified,  she  is  then  partly  worthy  the  divine 
mate  who  is  to  make  her  wholly  so.  St.  Simeon  saw  the 
Hog  in  Nature,  and  took  Nature  for  the  Hog." 

It  was  one  of  these  strange  bodily  exaltations  which  thrilled 
the  young  man,  he  knew  not  how  it  was,  for  his  sadness  and 
his  forebodings  vanished.  The  soft  wand  touched  him.  At 
that  moment,  had  Sir  Austin  spoken  openly,  Richard  might 
have  fallen  upon  his  heart.  He  could  not.  He  chose  to  feel 
injured  on  the  common  ground  of  fathers,  and  to  pursue  his 
System  by  plotting.  Lady  Blandish  had  revived  his  jealousy 
of  the  creature  who  menaced  it,  and  jealousy  of  a  System  is 
unreflecting  and  vindictive  as  jealousy  of  woman. 

Heath-roots  and  pines  breathed  sharp  in  the  cool  autumn 
evening  about  the  Bellingham  station.  Richard  stood  a 
moment  as  he  stepped  fi-om  the  train,  and  drew  the  country 
air  into  his  lungs  with  large  heaves  of  the  chest.  Leaving 
his  father  to  the  felicitations  of  the  station-master,  he  went 
into  the  Lobourne  road  to  look  for  his  faithful  Tom,  who  had 
received  private  orders  through  Berry  to  be  in  attendance 
with  his  young  master's  mare,  Cassandra,  and  was  lurking  in 
a  plantation  of  firs  uninclosed  on  the  borders  of  the  road, 
where  Richard,  knowing  his  retainer's  zest  for  conspiracy 
too  well  to  seek  him  anywhere  but  ivi  the  part  most  favoured 
with  shelter  and  concealment,  found  him  furtively  whiffing 
tobacco. 

"  What  news,  Tom  ? — Is  she  well  ?  Is  she  ill  ?  Is  sho 
safe  ?  " 

Tom  smuggled  his  pipe  into  his  pocket.  He  sent  his  un- 
dress cap  on  one  side  to  scratch  at  dilemma,  an  old  agricul- 
Ural  habit  to  wh  ich  he  was  still  a  slave  in  moments  of 
abstract  thought  or  sudden  difficulty. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  the  rake,  Mr.  Richard,"  he  whinnied 
with  a  deprecating  false  grin,  as  he  beheld  his  master's  eye 
vacantly  following  the  action.  *'  You're  looking  uncommon 
well,  sir," 


174  TIIK  OKDKAL  OF  RICIIAUn  FFTVEHEL. 

"  D'yoxi  lioar,  Tom?"  cried  Richard  iinj)ora<ivoly.  "I 
liavon't  had  a  letter  for  a  week!  How  is  she?  Whcie  is 
Bhe  H  " 

Tom  ste])pod  back  to  Cassaiidia's  hiiid-quartei'S,  ami  round 
to  her  fore-feet,  pretending  to  be  spying  after  furze-thorns. 
Between  anger  and  alarm  at  Tom's  hesitation  to  answer 
lionestly,  a  quality  that  served  for  patience  restrained  his 
master ;  but  Tom  saw  that  this  trifling  would  not  do,  and  he 
got  up  from  the  mare's  loins,  and  said,  holding  forth  both 
hands  open,  "  There,  sir  !  I  don't  mind  saying  it.  I  know  I 
ought  for  to  have  powsted  a  letter,  tell'n  you  all  of  it  as  much 
as  I'd  come  to  hear — but  there,  Mr.  Richaid,  I  do  writ  so 
shocken  bad,  and  that's  the  truth,  I  wasn't  the  man  for't. 
Well,  sir,"  Tom  warmed  to  speak  out  now  he  had  begun,  "  I 
should  a'  stopped  her.  I  know  that,  sir.  I  know'd  how  it'd 
knock  you  down.  But  I  ain't  a  scholar !  I  ain't  what  you 
thinks  or  hopes  for — bain't  a  bit  of  a  hero.  I  never  can  do 
anything  'less  it's  in  company.  I  can't  do't  by  myself.  I'm 
no  hero.  I  know  very  well  Lord  Nelson  'd  a  done  it,"  con- 
tinued Tom,  remembering,  doubtless,  many  a  lecture  on  the 
darling  hero  of  Britain.  "  He'd  'a  done  it.  So'd  the  Duke  o' 
Wellington,  or  any  o'  them  Peninsular  War  chaps.  But  I 
nadn't  the  spirit  to  step  in  and  say — You  shan't  take  her 
away.  I  thought  about  't,  but  there — I  couldn't !  There's 
no  more  mistakes  between  us  now,  Mr.  Richard.  You  see,  I 
ain't  a  bit  better  than  any  other  chap  " 

Thus  Richard  learnt  the  news.  He  took  it  with  surprising 
outward  calm,  only  getting  a  little  closer  to  Cassandra's  neck, 
and  looking  very  hard  at  Tom  without  seeing  a  speck  of  him, 
which  had  the  effect  on  Tom  of  making  him  sincerely  wish 
his  master  would  punch  his  head  at  once  rather  than  fix  him 
in  that  owl-like  way. 

"Go  on,  Tom!"  said  Richard  huskily.  "Yes?  She's 
gone  !     Well  ?  " 

Tom  was  brought  to  understand  he  must  make  the  most  of 
trifles,  and  recited  how  he  had  heard  from  a  female  domestic 
at  Belthorpe  of  the  name  of  Davenport,  formerly  known  to 
him,  that  the  young  lady  never  slept  a  wink  from  the  hour 
she  knew  she  was  going,  but  sat  up  in  her  bed  till  morning 
crying  most  pitifully,  though  she  never  complained.  Hereat 
the  tears  unconsciously  streamed  down  Richard's  cheeks. 
Tom  said  he  had  tried  to  see  her,  but  Mr.  Adrian  kept  him 


THE  APPEOACHES  OF  FEVER.  175- 

at  work,  cipliering  at  a  terrible  sum — that  and  nothing  else 
all  day  !  saying,  it  was  to  please  his  j'^oung  master  on  his 
return.  "  Likewise  something  in  Lat'n,"  added  Tom, 
"  Nom'tive  Mouser ! — 'nough  to  make  ye  mad,  sir!"  he 
exclaimed  with  pathos.  The  wretch  had  been  put  to  acquire 
a  Latin  declension. 

Tom  saw  her  on  the  morning  she  went  away,  he  said  :  she 
was  very  sorrowful-looking,  and  nodded  kindly  to  him  as 
she  passed  in  the  fly  along  with  young  Tom  Blaize.  "  She 
have  got  uncommon  kind  eyes,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  and  cryin' 
don't  spoil  them."  For  which  his  hand  was  violently 
wrenched. 

Tom  had  no  more  to  tell,  save  that,  in  rounding  the  road, 
the  young  lady  had  hung  out  her  hand,  and  seemed  to  move 
it  forward  and  back,  as  much  as  to  say.  Good-bye,  Tom  ! 
"  And  though  she  couldn't  see  me,"  said  Tom,  "  I  took  off  my 
hat.  I  did  take  it  so  kind  of  her  to  think  of  a  chap  like  me." 
Tom  was  at  high-pressure  sentiment — what  with  his  education 
for  a  hej'O  and  his  master's  love-stricken  state, 

"  You  saw  no  more  of  her,  Tom  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  That  was  the  last !  "  said  Tom,  imitating  the 
forlornness  of  his  master's  voice. 

"  That  was  the  last  you  saw  of  her,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  saw  nothin'  more." 

"  You  didn't  go  to  the  corner  of  the  road  to  see ?  " 

"  Dash'd  if  I  thought  o'  doing  that,  sirl 

"  And  so  she  went  out  of  sight,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Clean  gone,  that  she  were,  sir  !  " 

"  Why  did  they  take  her  away  ?  what  have  they  done  with 
her  ?  where  have  they  taken  her  to  ? 

These  red-hot  questionings  were  addressed  to  the  universal 
heaven  rather  than  to  Tom. 

"  Why  didn't  she  write  ?  "  they  were  resumed.  "  Why  did 
she  leave  ?     She's  mine.     She  belongs  to  me  !     Who  dai'od 

take  her  way  ?     Why  did  she  leave  without  writing  ? 

Tom  ! " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  well-drilled  recruit,  dressing  himself 
up  to  the  woi'd  of  command.  He  expected  a  variation  of  the 
theme  fi'om  the  change  of  tone  with  which  his  name  had  been 
pronounced,  but  it  was  again,  "  Where  have  thoy  taken  her 
to  ?  "  and  this  was  even  more  perplexing  to  Tom  than  hia 


t7G  TTTF,  Or.DKAL  0?  rjCnAFvl)  FEVEREL. 

hard  snm  in  nrithmetic  had  boon.  lie  could  only  draw  down 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  hard,  and  g'lance  up  ([Ueerly. 

"  She  had  been  crying — you  saw  that,  Tom  ?  " 

"  No  mistake  about  that,  LIr.  llichard.  Cryin'  all  night 
and  all  day,  I  sh'd  say." 

"  And  she  was  crying  when  you  saw  her  ?  " 

"  She  look'd  as  if  she'd  just  done  for  a  moment,  sir,"  Tom 
insinuated. 

"  But  her  face  was  white  ?  ** 

"  White  as  a  sheet." 

Richard  paused  to  discover  whether  his  instinct  had 
caught  a  new  view  from  these  facts.  He  was  in  a  cage, 
always  knocking  against  the  same  bars,  fly  as  he  niiglit. 
Her  tears  were  the  stars  in  his  black  night.  He  clung  to 
them  as  golden  orbs.  Inexplicable  as  they  were,  they  were 
at  least  pledges  of  love.  She  could  not  have  been  too 
miserable  to  please  him. 

"  Tom  !  "  he  said,  "  I'll  follow  her  at  once." 

"Better  wait,"  Tom  advised  "till  I  search  out  where  the 
young  lady  is — hadn't  you,  sir  Y  " 

The  hues  of  sunset  had  left  the  West.  No  light  was 
there  but  the  steadfast  pale  eye  of  twilight.  Thither  he  was 
drawn :  thither  he  must  go.  He  had  not  listened  to  Tom's 
sound  sense,  but  it  appeared  to  guide  him,  for  he  mounted 
Cassandra,  saying :  "  Tell  them  something,  Tom.  I  shan't  be 
home  to  dinnei-,"  and  rode  off  toward  the  forsaken  home  of 
light  over  Belthorpe,  wherein  he  saw  the  wan  hand  of  his 
Lucy,  waving  farewell,  receding  as  he  advanced.  His  jewel 
was  stolen, — he  must  gaze  upon  the  empty  box. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


CRISIS    IN   THE    APPLE-DISEASE. 


Night  had  come  on  as  Richard  entered  the  old  elm- 
Bhaded,  grass- bordered  lane  leading  down  from  Raynham  to 
Belthorpe.  The  pale  eye  of  twilight  was  shut.  The  wind 
had  tossed  up  the  bank  of  Western  cloud,  which   was  now 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APPLE- DISEASE.  177 

flying  broad  and  unlighted  across  the  sky,  broad  and  balmy 
— the  charioted  South-west  at  full  charg-e  behind  his  panting 
coursei's.  As  he  neared  the  farm  his  heart  fluttered  and 
leapt  up.  He  was  sure  she  must  be  there.  She  must  have 
returned.  Why  should  she  have  left  for  good  without 
writing  ?  He  caught  suspicion  by  the  throat,  making  it 
voiceless,  if  it  lived :  he  silenced  reason.  Her  not  writing 
was  now  a  proof  she  had  returned.  He  listened  to  nothing 
but  his  imperious  passion,  and  murmured  sweet  words  for 
her,  as  if  she  were  by :  tender  cherishing  epithets  of  love  in 
the  nest.  She  was  there — she  moved  somewhere  about  like 
a  silver  flame  in  the  dear  old  house  doing  her  sweet  house- 
hold duties.  His  blood  began  to  sing :  O  happy  those 
within,  to  see  her,  and  be  about  her !  By  some  extra- 
ordinary process  he  contrived  to  cast  a  sort  of  glory  round 
the  burly  person  of  Farmer  Blaize  himself.  And  oh  !  to 
have  companionship  with  a  seraph  one  must  know  a  seraph's 
bliss,  and  was  not  young  T.)m  to  be  envied  ?  The  smell  of 
late  clematis  brought  on  the  wind  enwrapped  him,  and  went 
to  his  brain,  and  threw  a  light  over  the  old  red-brick  house, 
for  he  remembered  where  it  grew,  and  the  winter  rose-tree, 
and  the  jessamine,  and  the  passion-flower:  the  garden  in 
front  with  the  standard  roses  tended  by  her  hands ;  the  long 
wall  to  the  left  striped  by  the  branches  of  the  cherry,  the 
peep  of  a  further  garden  through  the  wall,  and  then  the 
orchard,  and  the  fields  beyond — the  happy  circle  of  her 
dwelling !  it  flashed  before  his  eyes  while  he  looked  on  the 
darkness.  And  yet  it  was  the  reverse  of  hope  which  kindled 
tliis  light  and  inspired  the  momentary  calm  he  experienced  : 
it  was  despair  exaggerating  delusion,  wilfully  building  up 
on  a  groundless  basis.  "  For  the  tenacity  of  ti'ue  passion  is 
terrible,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip:  "it  will  stand  against 
the  hosts  of  heaven,  God's  great  array  of  Facts,  rather  than 
surrender  its  aim,  and  must  be  crushed  before  it  will  suc- 
sumb — sent  to  the  lowest  pit !  "  He  knew  she  was  not 
there;  she  was  gone.  But  the  power  of  a  will  strained 
to  madness  fought  at  it,  kept  it  down,  conjured  forth  her 
ghost,  and  would  have  it  as  he  dictated.  Poor  youth !  the 
great  array  of  facts  was  in  due  oi'der  of  march. 

He  had  breathed  her  name  many  times,  and  once  over- 
loud ;  almost  a  cry  for  her  escaped  him.  He  had  not  noticed 
the  o[)ening  of  a  door  and   the  noise  of    a  foot   along   tha 

N 


178  THE  onnEAT,  of  EicnA'np  feverel. 

gravcl-Avalk.  He  was  loaninj;  over  Cassandra's  uneasy  neck 
-watehinLT  llie  one  window  intently,  when  a  voice  addn'Siseil 
him  out  ot  llie  darkness. 

"  Be  that  you,  young  gentk-uuin  ? — Mr.  Fev'rel  ?  " 

Richard's  trance  was  broken.  "  Mr.  Blaize  !  "  he  saiJ, 
recognizing  the  farmer's  voice. 

"  Good  even'n  t'  you,  sir,"  returned  the  farmer.  "I  knew 
the  mare  though  I  didn't  know  you.  Rather  bluff  to-night 
it  be.  Will  ye  step  in,  Mr.  Fev'rel  ?  it's  boginnin'  to  spit — 
going  to  be  a  wildish  night,  I  reckon." 

Richard  dismounted.  The  farmer  called  one  of  his  men 
to  hold  the  mare,  and  ushered  the  young  man  in.  Once  thei-e 
Richard's  conjurations  ceased.  Theie  was  a  dcadness  about 
the  rooms  and  passages  that  told  of  her  absence.  The  walls 
he  touched — these  were  the  vacant  shell  of  his  divinity.  He 
had  never  been  in  the  house  since  he  knew  her,  and  now  what 
strange  sweetness,  and  what  pangs  ! 

Young  Tom  Blaize  was  in  the  parlour,  squared  over  the 
table  in  open-mouthed  examination  of  an  ancient  book  of  the 
fashions  for  a  summer  month  which  had  elapsed  during  his 
mother's  minority.  Young  Tom  was  respectfully  stndj^ing 
the  aspects  of  the  radiant  beauties  of  the  polite  work.  He 
also  was  a  thrall  of  woman,  newly  enrolled,  and  full  of 
wonder. 

"  What,  Tom  !"  the  farmer  sang  out  as  soon  as  he  had 
opened  the  door;  "there  ye  be  !  at  yer  Folly  agin,  are  ye? 
What  good'U  them  fashens  do  to  you,  I'd  like  t'  know  ? 
Come,  shut  up,  and  go  and  see  to  ]\Ir.  Fev'rel's  mare.  He's 
al'aj-s  at  that  ther'  Folly  now.  I  say  there  never  were  a 
better  name  for  a  book  than  that  ther'  Folly  !  Talk  about 
attitudes  ! 

The  farmer  laughed  his  fat  sides  into  a  chair,  and  motioned 
his  visitor  to  do  likewise. 

"  It's  a  comfort  they're  most  on'em  females,"  he  pursued, 
sounding  a  thwack  on  his  knee  as  he  settled  himself  agree- 
ably in  his  seat.  "  It  don't  matter  much  what  they  does, 
except  pinchin'  in — waspin'  it — at  the  waist.  Give  me 
nature,  I  say — woman  as  she's  made  !  eh,  young  gentle, 
man  ?" 

A  blush  went  over  Richard  ;  he  was  thinking,  *'  Is  this  the 
chair  she  sat  in  ?"  She  seemed  to  put  her  arms  about  him, 
and  say,  "  Suppose  I  have  gone  ?  Shall  I  not  soon  be  back 
to  you  ?     Why  are  you  so  downcast?" 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APPLE- DISEASE.  179 

"  It  seems  Polly's  a  new  name  for  them  faslicns.  So  they 
tells  me,"  said  the  farmer,  "  not  a  bad  'un,  I  think  !  Hciyie 
yer  father's  well,  Mr.  Fev'rel  ?  Ah  !  if  he'd  been  the  man 
he  bid  fair  to  be — though  we  was  opp'site  polities  —well  J 
it's  a  loss  anyhow  !  Not  the  first  time  you've  bin  in  this 
apartment,  young  gentleman  ?" 

"  No,  Mr  Blaize  !  it  is  not,"  Richard  now  spoke.  "  I  think 
I  ought  to  have— you  see,  that  was  my  book  of  Folly,  and 
I  shall  be  glad  to  think  it's  closed." 

To  this  proper  speech,  the  farmer  replied  drily,  "  "Well ! 
so  long  as  that  sort  of  Folly  don't  grow  to  be  the  fashen  ! 
Howsomever  th;  t's  over  and  past — no  more  said  about  't  !" 

A  rather  embarrassing  silence  ensued,  broken  by  a  move- 
ment of  legs  changing  places,  like  evolutions  of  infantry 
before  the  dread  artillery  opens. 

"  You  seem  very  lonely  here,"  said  Richard,  glancing 
round,  and  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Lonely  ?"  quoth  the  farmer.  "  Well,  for  the  matter  o' 
that,  we  be!— jest  now,  so  't  happens;  I've  got  my  pipe, 
and  Tom  've  got  his  Folly.  He's  on  one  side  the  taable, 
and  I'm  on  t'other.  He  gaapes,  and  I  gazes.  We  are  a  bit 
lonesome.     But  there  -•  it's  for  the  best !  " 

Richard  resumed,  "  I  hardly  expected  to  see  you  to-night, 
Mr.  Blaize." 

"  Y'  acted  like  a  man  in  coming,  young  gentleman,  and  I 
does  ye  honour  for  it  !"  said  Farmer  Blaize  with  sudden 
energy  and  directness. 

The  thing  implied  by  the  farmer's  words  caused  Richard 
to  take  a  quick  breath.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and 
then  looked  away,  the  farmer  thrumming  on  the  arm  of  hia 
chair. 

Above  the  mantel-piece,  surrounded  by  tarnished  indiffe- 
rent miniatures  of  high-collared,  well-to-do  yeomen  of  the 
anterior  generation,  trying  their  best  not  to  grin,  and  higli- 
waisted  old  ladies  smiling  an  encouraging  smile  through 
plentiful  cap-puckers,  there  hung  a  passably  executed  half- 
figure  of  a  naval  officer  in  uniform,  grasping  a  telesco))e 
under  his  left  arm,  who  stood  forth  clearly  as  not  of  their 
kith  and  kin.  His  eyes  were  blue,  his  hair  light,  his  be;i,ring 
that  of  a  man  who  knows  how  to  carry  his  head  and  sliouldei-s. 
The  artist,  while  giving  him  an  epaulette  to  indicate  his 
rank,  had  also  recorded  the  juvenility  which  a  lieutenant  in 

■n2 


180  THE  OnOKAL  OF  PJCnATlD  FRVEREL. 

the  naval  service  can  rciain  after  arriving  at  that  position, 
bv  painting  liim  with  smooth  cheeks  ant'  fresh  ruddy  lips. 
To  this  portrait  Richard's  eyes  were  directed.  Farmer 
Blaize  observed  it,  and  said — 

"  Her  father,  sir  !  " 

Richard  moderated  his  voice  to  praise  the  likeness. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  farmer,  "  pretty  well.  Next  best  to  havin' 
her,  though  it's  a  long  way  off  that !  " 

"  An  old  family,  Mr.  Blaize — is  it  not  ?  "  Richard  asked  in 
as  careless  a  tone  as  he  could  assume. 

"  Gentlefolks — what's  left  of  'em,"  replied  the  farmer  with 
an  equally  affected  indifference. 

"  And  that's  her  father  ?  "  said  Richard,  growing  bolder 
to  speak  of  her. 

"  That's  her  father,  young  gentleman  !  " 

"  Mr.  Blaize,"  Richard  turned  to  face  him,  and  burst  out, 
**  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Gone,  sir  !  packed  off  ! — Can't  have  her  here  now."  The 
farmer  thrummed  a  step  brisker,  and  eyed  the  young  man's 
wild  face  resolutely. 

"Mr.  Blaize,"  Richard  leaned  forward  to  get  closer  to  him. 
He  was  stunned,  and  hardly  aware  of  what  he  was  saying  or 
doing  :  "  Where  has  she  gone  ?     Why  did  she  leave  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  to  ask,  sir —ye  know,"  said  the  farmer,  with 
a  side  shot  of  his  head. 

"  But  she  did  not — it  was  not  her  wish  to  go  ?  " 

"  No  I  I  think  she  likes  the  place.  Mayhap  she  likes  't 
too  well  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you.  send  her  away  to  make  her  unhappy,  Mr. 
Blaize  ?  " 

The  farmer  bluntly  denied  it  was  he  was  the  party  who 
made  her  unhappy.  "  Nobody  can't  accuse  me.  Tell  ye 
what,  sir.  I  wunt  have  the  busybodies  set  to  work  about 
her,  and  there's  all  the  matter.  So  let  you  and  I  come  to  an 
understandm'." 

A  blind  inclination  to  take  offence  made  Richard  sit  up- 
right. He  forgot  it  the  next  minute,  and  said  humbly  :  "  Am 
I  the  cause  of  her  going  ?  " 

"  Well !  "  returned  the  farmer,  "  to  speak  straight — ye 
be  ! " 

"  What  can  I  do,  Mr.  Blaize,  that  she  may  come  back 
again  ?  "  the  young  hypocrite  asked. 


CPvISIS  IN  THE  APrLE-DISEASB.  1?1 

"Now,"  said  the  farmer,  "  you're  cominc:  to  business.  Glad 
to  hear  ye  talk  in  that  sensible  way  Mr.  Fev'rel.  You  may 
guess  I  wants  her  bad  enough.  The  house  ain't  itself  now 
she's  away,  and  I  ain't  myself.  Well,  sir  !  This  ye  can  do. 
If  you  gives  me  your  promise  not  meddle  with  her  at  all— 
I  can't  mak'  out  how  you  come  to  be  acquainted ;  not  to  try 
to  get  her  to  be  meetin'  you — and  if  you'd  'a  seen  her  when 
she  left,  you  would — when  did  ye  meet  H — last  grass,  wasn't 
it  ? — your  word  as  a  gentleman  not  to  be  writing  letters,  and 
spyin'  after  her — I'll  have  her  back  at  once.  Back  she  shall 
come  !  " 

"  Give  her  up  I  "  cried  Richard. 

"  Ay,  that's  it  !  "  said  the  farmer.     "  Give  her  up." 

The  young  man  checked  the  annihilation  of  time  that  waa 
on  his  mouth. 

"  You  sent  her  away  to  protect  her  from  me,  then  ?  "  he 
said  savagely. 

"  That's  not  quite  it,  but  that'll  do,"  rejoined  the  farmer. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  harm  her,  sir  r*  " 

"  People  seem  to  think  she'll  harm  you,  young  gentle- 
man," the  farmer  said  with  some  irony. 

"  Harm  me—  she  ?     What  people  ?  " 

"  People  pretty  intimate  with  you,  sir." 

"  What  people  ?  Who  spoke  of  us  ?  "  Richard  began  to 
Bcent  a  plot,  and  would  not  be  baulked. 

"  Well,  sir,  look  here,"  said  the  farmer.  "  It  ain't  no 
secret,  and  if  it  be,  I  don't  see  why  I'm  to  keep  it.  It 
appears  your  education's  peculiar  ! '  The  farmer  drawled 
o  it  the  word  as  if  he  were  describing  the  figure  of  a  snake. 
"  You  ain't  to  be  as  other  young  gentlemen.  All  the  better  ! 
You're  a  fine  bold  young  gentleman,  and  your  father's  a  right 
to  be  proud  of  ye.  Well,  sir — I'm  sure  I  thank  him  for't — 
he  comes  to  hear  of  you  and  Luce,  and  of  course  he  don't 
want  nothin'  o'  that — more  do  I.  I  meets  him  there  ! 
What's  more  I  won't  have  nothin'  of  it.  She  be  my  gal. 
She  were  left  to  my  protection.  And  she's  a  lady,  sir.  Let 
mo  toll  ye,  ye  won't  find  many  on  'em  so  well  looked  to  as 
she  be — my  Luce  !  Well,  Mr.  Fev'rel,  it's  you,  or  it's  her — 
one  of  ye  must  be  outo'  the  way.  So  we're  told  And  Luce 
—I  do  believe  she's  just  as  anxious  about  yer  education  as 
yer  father— she  says  she'll  go,  and  wouldn't  write,  and  'd 
brake  it  off  for  the  sake  o'  your  educaiiou.     And  sho've  kep 


1*^>2  THE  OTIDFAI,  OF  RTCHAT^D  FF.VFKKL. 

hor  word,  haven't  slic  ? — And  she's  a  true  'n.  What  she 
says  siiell  do  ! — Tine  hhie  siie  he,  my  Luce  !  So  now,  sir, 
you  do  the  same,  and  I'll  tliank  ye." 

Any  one  who  has  tossed  a  sheet  of  papei'  into  the  fire,  and 
seen  it  gradually  bi-own  with  heat,  and  sti-ike  to  flame,  may 
conceive  the  mind  of  the  lover  as  he  listened  to  this  speech. 

His  anger  did  not  evaporate  in  words,  but  condensed  and 
sank  deep.  "  Mr.  Blaize,"  he  said  between  his  set  teeth, 
"  this  i.s  very  kind  of  the  people  you  allude  to,  but  I  am  of  an 
age  now  to  think  and  act  for  myself — 1  love  her,  sirl  "  His 
whole  countenance  changed,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face 
quivered. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  farmer  appeasingly,  "  we  all  do  at  your 
age  — somebody  or  other.     It's  natural  1  " 

"  I  love  her  !  "  the  young  man  thundered  afresh,  too  much 
possessed  by  his  passion  to  have  a  sense  of  shame  in  the  con- 
fession.  "  Farmer  !  "  his  voice  fell  to  supplication,  "  will 
you  bring  her  back  ?  " 

Farmer  Blaize  made  a  queer  face.  He  asked — what  for  ? 
and  where  was  the  promise  required  ?  But  was  not  the 
lover's  argument  conclusive  ?  He  said  he  loved  her  !  and 
he  could  not  see  why  her  uncle  should  not  in  consequence 
immediately  send  for  her,  that  they  might  be  together.  All 
very  well,  quoth  the  farmer,  but  what's  to  come  of  it  ? — 
What  was  to  come  of  it  ?  Why,  love,  and  more  love  !  And 
a  bit  too  much  !  the  farmer  added  grimly. 

"  Then  you  refuse  me,  farmer,"  said  Richard.  "  I  must 
look  to  you  for  keeping  her  away  from  me,  not  to — to — these 
people.  You  will  not  have  her  back,  though  I  tell  you  I 
love  her  be^^ter  than  my  life  ?  " 

Farmer  Blaize  now  had  to  answer  him  plainly,  he  had  a 
reason  and  an  objection  of  his  own.  And  it  was,  that  her 
character  was  at  stake,  and  God  knew  whether  she  herself 
might  not  be  in  danger.  He  spoke  with  a  kindly  candour, 
not  without  dignity.  He  complimented  Richard  personally, 
but  young  people  were  young  people  ;  baronets'  sons  were  not 
in  the  habit  of  mariying  farmers'  nieces. 

At  first  the  son  of  a  System  did  not  comprehend  him. 
When  he  did,  he  said  :  "  Farmer  !  if  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour,  as  I  hope  for  heaven,  to  marry  her  when  I  am  of 
age,  will  you  have  her  back  ?  " 

He  was  so  fervid  that,  to  quiet  him,  the  farmer  only  shook 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APPLE  DISEASE.  l83 

his  head  doubtfully  at  the  bars  of  the  grate,  and  let  his  chest 
fall  slowly.  Richard  caught  what  seemed  to  him  a  glimpse 
of  encouragement  in  these  signs,  and  observed :  "  It's  not 
because  you  object  to  me,  Mr.  Blaize  ?  " 

The  farmer  signified  it  was  not  that. 

"  It's  because  my  father  is  against  me,"  Richard  went  on, 
and  undertook  to  show  that  love  was  so  sacred  a  matter  that 
no  father  could  entirely  and  for  ever  resist  his  son's  inclina- 
tions. Argument  being  a  cool  field  where  the  farmer  could 
meet  and  match  him,  the  young  man  got  on  the  tramroad  of 
his  passion,  and  went  ahead.  He  drew  pictures  of  Lucy,  of 
her  truth,  and  his  own.  He  took  leaps  from  life  to  death, 
from  death  to  life,  mixing  imprecations  and  prayers  in  a 
torrent.  Perhaps  he  did  move  the  stolid  old  Englishman  a 
little,  he  was  so  vehement,  and  made  so  visible  a  saciifice  of 
his  pride. 

Farmer  Blaize  tried  to  pacify  him,  but  it  was  useless.  His 
jewel  he  must  have. 

The  farmer  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  pipe  that 
allayeth  botheration.  "  May  smoke  heer  now,"  he  said. 
*'  Not  when — somebody's  present.  Smoke  in  the  kitchen 
then.      Don't  mind  smell  ?  " 

Richard  nodded,  and  watched  the  operations  while  the 
farmer  filled,  and  lighted  and  began  to  puff,  as  if  his  fate 
hung  on  them. 

"  Who'd  a'  thought,  when  you  sat  over  there  once,  of  it's 
comin'  to  this  ?  "  ejaculated  the  farmer,  drawing  ease  and 
reflection  from  tobacco.  "  You  didn't  think  much  of  her 
that  day,  young  gentleman  !  I  introduced  ye.  Well !  things 
comes  about.  Can't  you  wait  till  she  returns  in  due  course, 
now  ?  " 

This  suggestion,  the  work  of  the  pipe,  did  but  bring  on 
him  another  torrent. 

"  It's  queer,"  said  the  farmer,  putting  the  mouth  of  the 
pipe  to  his  wrinklcd-up  temples. 

Richard  waited  for  him,  and  then  he  laid  down  the  pipe 
altogether,  as  no  aid  in  perplexity,  and  said,  after  leaning  his 
arm  on  the  table  and  staring  at  Richard  an  instant: 

"  Look,  young  gentleman  !  My  word's  gone.  I've  spoko 
it.  I've  given  'em  the  'surance  she  shan't  bo  back  till  the 
Spring,  and  then  I'll  have  her,  and  then — well  !  I  do  hope, 
for  more  reasons  than  one,  yc'U  both  on  ye  bo  wiser — I've 


184  THE  Oimi^AL  OF  KICIIAKI-  rKVKUKL. 

pot  my  own  notions  about  lioi*.  But  I  an't  the  man  to  force 
a  gal  to  marry  'gainst  her  inclines.  Depend  ujion  it  I'm  not 
your  enemy,  Mr.  Fev'rel.  You're  jest  the  one  to  male'  a 
young  gal  proud.  So  wait, — and  see.  That's  my  'dvicc. 
Jest  tak'  and  wait.     I've  no  more  to  say." 

Richard's  impetuosity  had  made  him  really  alraid  of 
speaking  his  notions  concerning  the  projected  felicity  of 
young  Tom,  if  indeed  they  were  serious. 

The  farmer  repeated  that  he  had  no  more  to  say ;  and 
Richard,  with  "  Wait  till  the  Spring  !  Wait  till  the  Spring!  " 
dinning  despair  in  his  ears,  stood  up  to  depart.  Farmer 
IJlaize  shook  his  slack  hand  in  a  friendly  way,  and  called  out 
at  the  door  for  young  Tom,  who,  dreading  allusions  to  his 
Folly,  did  not  appear.  A  maid  i-ushed  by  Richard  in  the 
passage,  and  slipped  something  into  his  grasp,  which  fixed 
on  it  without  further  consciousness  than  that  of  touch.  The 
mare  was  led  forth  by  the  Bantam.  A  light  rain  was  falling 
down  strong  warm  gusts,  and  the  ti-ces  were  noisy  in  the 
night.  Farmer  Blaize  requested  Richard  at  the  gate  to  give 
him  his  hand,  and  say  all  was  well.  He  liked  the  young 
man  for  his  earnestness  and  honest  outspeaking.  Riohaid 
could  not  say  all  was  well,  but  he  gave  his  hand,  and  knitted  it 
to  the  farmer's  in  a  sharp  squeeze,  when  he  got  upon  Cassan- 
dra, and  rode  into  the  tumult. 

A  calm,  clear  dawn  succeeded  the  roaring  West,  and  threw 
its  glowing  grey  image  on  the  waters  of  the  Abbey-lake. 
Before  sunrise  Tom  Bakewell  was  abroad,  and  met  the 
missing  youth,  his  master,  jogging  Cassandra  leisurely  along 
the  Lobourne  park-road,  a  sorry  couple  to  look  at.  Cassan- 
dra's flanks  were  caked  with  mud,  her  head  drooped  :  all 
that  was  in  her  had  been  taken  out  by  that  wild  night.  On 
what  heaths  and  heavy  fallows  had  she  not  spent  her  noble 
strength,  recklessly  fretting  through  the  darkness  ! 

"  Take  the  mare,"  said  Richai-d,  dismounting  and  patting 
her  between  the  eyes.  "  She's  done  up,  poor  old  gal !  Look 
to  her,  Tom,  and  then  come  to  me  in  my  room." 

Tom  asked  no  questions.  He  saw  that  he  was  in  for  the 
Crst  act  of  the  new  comedy. 

Three  da^s  would  bring  the  anniver.sary  of  Richard's 
birth,  and  though  Tom  was  close,  the  condition  of  the  mare, 
and  the  young  gentleman's  stianj^e  fi-cak  in  riding  her  out 
ail  night  becoming  known,  pre|aitd  everybody  at  Raynham 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APFLE-DISEASE.  185 

for" the  usual  bad-luck  birthday,  the  prophets  of  which  were 
full  of  sad  gratification.  Sir  Austin  had  an  unpleasant  office 
tc  require  of  his  son ;  no  other  than  that  of  humbly  begging 
Censon's  pardon,  and  washing  out  the  undue  blood  he  had 
spilt  in  taking  his  Pound  of  Flesh.  Heavy  Benson  was  told 
to  anticipate  the  demand  for  pardon,  and  practised  in  his 
mind  the  most  melancholy  Christian  deportment  he  could 
assume  on  the  occasion.  But  while  his  son  was  in  this  state, 
Sir  Austin  considered  that  he  would  hardly  be  brought  to 
see  the  virtues  of  the  act,  and  did  not  make  the  requisition 
of  him,  and  heavy  Benson  remained  drawn  up  solemnly 
expectant  at  doorways,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  a 
Saurian  Caryatid,  wherever  he  could  get  a  step  in  advance 
of  the  young  man,  Avhile  Ilichard  heedlessly  passed  him,  as 
he  passed  everybody  else,  his  head  bent  to  the  groiind,  and 
his  legs  bearing  him  like  random  instruments  of  whose 
service  he  was  unconscious.  It  was  a  shock  to  Benson's 
implicit  belief  in  his  patron  ;  and  he  was  not  consoled  by  the 
philosophic  explanation,  "  That  Good  in  a  strong  many-com- 
pounded nature  is  of  slower  growth  than  any  other  mortal 
thing,  and  must  not  be  forced."  Damnatory  doctrines 
best  pleased  Benson.  Benson  was  ready  to  pardon,  as  a 
Christian  should,  but  he  did  want  his  enemy  before  him  on 
his  knees.  And  now,  though  the  Saurian  Eye  saw  more  than 
all  the  other  eyes  in  the  house,  and  saw  that  there  was 
matter  in  hand  between  Tom  and  his  master  to  breed  exceed- 
ing  discomposure  to  the  System,  Benson,  as  he  had  not 
received  his  indemnity,  and  did  not  wish  to  encounter  fresh 
[)erils  lor  nociiing,  held  his  peace. 

Sir  Austin  partly  divined  what  was  going  on  in  the  breast 
of  his  son,  without  conceiving  the  depths  of  distrust  his  son 
cherished  towards  him,  and  all,  or  quite  measuring  the  in- 
tensity of  the  passion  that  consumed  him.  He  was  very 
kind  and  tender  with  him.  Like  a  cunning  physician  who 
lias,  nevertheless,  overlooked  the  change  in  the  disease  super- 
induced, by  one  false  dose,  he  meditated  his  prescriptions 
carefully  and  confidently,  sure  that  he  knew  the  case,  and 
was  a  match  for  it.  He  decreed  that  Richai-d's  eriatio 
behaviour  should  pass  unnoticed.  Two  days  before  the 
Inrthday,  he  asked  him  whether  ho  would  object  to  the 
Grandisons  coming,  and  having  company  ?  To  which 
Richard  said:  "  Huve  whom  you  will,  sir."  The  prepara- 
tion for  festivity  commenced  accordingly. 


IFd  THE  ORDMAT,  OF  RirnARD  FRVKREL. 

On  the  bill  lulay  eve  ho  dined  with  tlie  rest.  Lady  Blandish 
was  there,  and  sat  penitently  at  his  right.  Ilijipias  prognos- 
tieated  certain  indige.stion  for  himself  on  the  morrow.  The 
Eigiueenth  Century  wondered  whether  she  should  live  to  see 
another  birthday.  Adrian  drank  the  two-years'  distant  term 
of  his  tutorship,  and  Algernon  went  over  the  list  of  the 
Lobourne  men  who  would  cope  with  Bursley  on  the  morrow. 
Sir  Austin  gave  ear  and  a  word  to  all,  keeping  his  mental 
eye  for  his  son.  To  please  Lady  Blandish  also,  Adrian  ven- 
tured to  make  trifling  jokes  about  Mrs.  Grandison;  jokes 
delicately  not  decent,  but  so  delicately  so,  that  it  was  not 
decent  to  perceivo  it.  He  desired  to  know  whether  Berry 
was  in  suflicient  muscular  condition  to  transport  the  lady 
upstairs  and  down ;  and  being  told  that  no  doubt  Berry 
would  be,  were  the  service  requiied  of  him,  Adrian  appeared 
to  reflect  profoundly,  and  thought  that  on  no  account  must 
the  precious  freight  be  consigned  to  the  inflammable  Berry ; 
in  support  of  which  Adrian  mildly  cited  certain  grievous  in- 
Btances  in  the  Pagan  mythology  of  breach  of  trust  even  when 
the  offenders  were  Gods,  which  Berry  had  no  pretence  to  be, 
utter  animal  man  that  he  was. 

"  Then  you  must  do  it,"  said  Richard,  just  waking  up,  and 
for  want  of  something  to  say. 

"Even  I  dare  not!  Such  an  ordeal  as  that!" — Adrian 
gravely  replied,  shaking  a  meek  sinner's  head,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  help  laughing  at  his  solemn  manner.  Algernon, 
knowing  him  better  than  the  others,  laughed  aloud. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  be  the  man  !  "  he  said. 

"  Remember,"  said  Adrian,  "  that  you  have  already  had 
your  ordeal." 

"Well,  then.  Hip!"  Algernon  turned  to  his  melancholy 
brother,  "  Hip  will  do  for  it  exactly." 

*'  Happy  one  !  "  Adrian  apostrophized  Hippias  reverently, 
*'  behold  in  his  arms  the  fruit  of  a  thousand  indigestions  !  " 

And  at  this  picture  of  the  virtuous  lady  borne  as  a  prize 
by  the  dyspepsy,  there  was  laughter  all  round  the  board.  Sir 
Austin  himself  reticently  joining  in. 

After  dinner  Richard  left  them.  Nothing  more  than  com- 
monly  peculiar  was  observed  about  him,  beyond  the  excessive 
glitter  of  his  eyes,  but  the  baronet  said,  "  Yes,  yes  !  that 
will  pass."  He  and  Adrian,  and  Lady  Blandish,  took  tea  in 
the  library,  and  sat  till  a  late  hour-   discussing  casuistries 


CTRTSIS  TN  THE  APPLE  DTSEA?E.  187 

relating  mostly  to  tlie  Apple-disease.  Converse  verj  amusina 
to  the  wise  youth,  who  could  suggest  to  the  two  chaste 
minds  situations  of  the  shadiest  character,  with  the  air  of  a 
seeker  after  truth,  and  lead  them,  unsus])ecting,  where  they 
dare  not  look  about  them.  The  Aphorist  had  elated  the 
heart  of  his  constant  fair  worshipper  with  a  newly  rounded, 
if  not  newly-conceived  sentence,  when  they  became  aware 
that  they  were  four.  Heavy  Benson  stood  among  them. 
He  said  he  had  knocked,  but  received  no  answer.  Theri- 
was,  however,  a  vestige  of  surprise  and  dissatisfaction  on  his 
face  beholding  Adrian  of  the  company,  which  had  not  quite 
worn  away,  and  gave  place,  when  it  did  vanish,  to  an  aspect 
of  flabby  severity. 

"  Well,  Benson  ?  well  ?"  said  the  baronet,  not  understand- 
ing the  interruption,  and  impatient  at  Benson's  presence. 

Benson  persisted  in  the  flabby-severe  without  speaking, 
and  the  appearance  of  this  strange  owl  presiding  stupidly 
over  them,  was  so  astonishing  as  to  keep  them  all  looking 
at  him.  They  had  disconcerted  Benson,  who  was  of  slow 
wit,  by  being  three  instead  of  two,  and  he  was  troubled  what 
to  say  for  himself.  At  last  he  said  the  thing  he  would  have 
said  had  they  been  but  two. 

"  If  you  please.  Sir  Austin  !  it's  very  late." 

Benson  regarded  the  impression  he  had  made.  It  was  not 
a  very  distinct  one.  Lady  Blandish  laughed  and  said:  "  I 
see.  Benson  wishes  to  have  us  up  early  in  the  morning. 
Hasn't  my  maid  gone  to  bed  ?  " 

"  She  has  gone,  my  lady." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  said  Adrian. 

"  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  Mr.  Hadrian,  she  has  gone 
to  her  bed."  Benson's  tone  defied  misconstruction  or  impu- 
tation. 

"  Then  I  will  follow  soon  to  mine,  Benson,"  said  Lady 
Blandish. 

This  should  have  satisfied  Benson,  but  still  he  did  not  go. 

"  Well,  Benson  ?  well  ?  "  said  the  baronet. 

The  unraoving  man  replied :  "  If  you  please,  Sir  Austin — 
Mr.  Richard !  " 

"Well!" 

"He's  out  I" 

"Well?" 

"With  Bake  Weill" 

"Well?" 


188  THE  OT^DKAI,  OF  rJCIIARD  rEVEKEL. 

"  And  a  carpct-liapr  I  " 

Beiisdn  liail  jndLjod  his  climax  properly.  And  a  carpet, 
bag  I  The  baronet  looked  blank.  Adrian  raised  his  brows. 
Lady  Blandish  glanced  at  one,  and  at  the  other. 

Out  he  was,  and  with  a  carpet-bag,  which  Tom  Bakewell 
carried.  He  was  on  the  road  to  Bollingham,  under  heavy 
rain,  hasting  like  an  escaped  captive,  wild  with  joy,  whilo 
Tom  shook  his  skin,  and  grunted  at  his  discomforts.  The 
mail  train  was  to  be  canght  at  Bollingham.  Pie  knew  where 
to  find  her  now,  tlirough  the  intervention  of  Miss  Davenport, 
and  thither  he  was  flying,  an  arrow  loosed  from  the  bow : 
thither,  in  spite  of  fathers  and  friends  and  plotters,  to  claim 
her,  and  take  her,  and  stand  with  her  against  the  world. 

They  were  both  thoroughly  wet  when  they  entered  Bel- 
lingham,  and  Tom's  visions  were  of  hot  drinks.  He  hinted 
the  necessity  for  inward  consolation  to  his  master,  who  could 
answer  nothing  but  "  Tom  !  Tom  !  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow!" 
tt  was  had  —  travelling  in  the  wet,  Tom  hinted  again,  to  pro- 
voke the  same  insane  outcry,  and  have  his  arm  seized  and 
furiously  shaken  into  the  bargain.  Passing  the  principal  inn 
of  the  place,  Tom  spoke  plainly  for  brandy. 

"  No  !  "  cried  Richard,  "  there's  not  a  moment  to  be  lost !" 
and  as  he  said  it,  he  reeled,  and  fell  against  Tom,  muttering 
indistinctly  of  faintness,  and  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
Tom  lifted  him  in  his  arms,  and  got  admission  to  the  inn. 
Brandy,  the  country's  specific,  was  advised  by  host  and 
hostess,  and  forced  into  his  mouth,  reviving  him  sufficiently 
to  cry  out,  "  Tom  !  the  bell's  ringing  :  we  shall  be  late,"  after 
which  he  fell  back  insensible  on  the  sofa  where  they  had 
stretched  him.  Excitement  of  blood  and  brain  had  done  its 
work  upon  him.  The  poor  youth  suffered  them  to  undress 
him  and  put  him  to  bed,  and  there  he  lay,  forgetful  even  of 
love;  a  drowned  weed  born  onward  by  the  tide  of  the  hours. 
There  his  father  found  him. 

Was  the  Scientific  Humanist  remorseful  ?  He  had  looked 
forward  to  such  a  crisis  as  that  point  in  the  disease  his  son 
was  the  victim  of,  when  the  body  would  fail  and  give  the 
spirit  calm  to  conquer  the  malady,  knowing  very  well  that 
the  seeds  of  the  evil  were  not  of  the  spirit.  Moreover,  to  see 
him  and  have  him  was  a  repose  after  the  alarm  Benson  had 
sounded.  Anxious  he  was,  and  prayerful  ;  but  with  faith  in 
the  physical  energy  he  attributed  to  his  System.     This  pro- 


CRISIS  IN  THE  APPLE-DISEASE.  189 

vidcntial  stroke  liad  saved  the  youth  from  heaven  knew 
what  !  "  Mark  !  "  said  the  baronet  to  Lady  Blandish, 
"  when  he  recovers  he  will  not  care  for  her." 

The  lady  had  accompanied  him  to  the  Bellingham  inn  on 
first  hearing  of  Richard's  seizure. 

"  Oh  !  what  an  iron  man  you  can  be,"  she  exclaimed, 
smothering  her  intuitions.  She  was  for  giving  the  boy  his 
bauble  ;  promising  it  him,  at  least,  if  he  would  only  get  well 
and  be  the  bright  flower  of  promise  he  once  was. 

''  Can  you  look  on  him,"  she  pleaded,  "  can  you  look  ou 
him,  and  persevere  ?  " 

It  was  a  hard  sight  for  this  man  who  loved  his  son  so 
deeply.  The  youth  lay  in  his  strange  bed,  straight  and 
motionless,  with  fever  on  his  cheeks  and  altered  eyes. 

"  See  what  you  do  to  us  !  "  said  the  baronet,  sorrowfully 
eyeing  the  bed. 

"  But  if  you  lose  him  ?  "  Lady  Blandish  whispered. 

Sir  Austin  walked  away  from  her,  and  probed  the  depths 
of  his  love.     "  The  stroke  will  not  be  dealt  by  me,"  he  said. 

His  patient  serenity  was  a  wonder  to  all  who  knew  him. 
Indeed,  to  have  doubted  and  faltered  now  was  to  have  sub- 
verted the  glorious  fabric  just  on  the  verge  of  completion. 
He  believed  that  his  son's  pure  strength  was  fitted  to  cope 
with  any  natural  evil :  that  such  was  God's  law.  To  him 
Richard's  passion  was  an  ill  incident  to  the  ripeness  of  his 
years  and  his  perfect  innocence  ;  and  this  crisis  the  struggle 
of  the  poison  passing  out  of  him — not  to  be  deplored.  He 
■was  so  confident  that  he  did  not  even  send  for  Ur.  Bairam. 
Old  Dr.  Clifford  of  Lobourne  was  the  medical  attendant, 
who,  with  head-shaking,  and  gathering  of  lips,  and  reminis- 
cences of  ancient  arguments,  guaranteed  to  do  all  that  leech 
could  do  in  the  matter.  The  old  doctor  did  admit  that 
Richard's  constitution  was  admirable,  and  answered  to  his 
prescriptions  like  a  piano  to  the  musician.  "  But,"  he 
said  at  a  family  consultation,  for  Sir  Austin  had  told  him 
how  it  stood  with  the  young  man,  "  drugs  are  not  much  in 
cases  of  this  sort.  Change  !  That's  what's  wanted,  and  as 
soon  as  may  be.  Distraction  !  Ho  ought  to  see  the  world, 
and  know  what  he  is  made  of.  It's  no  use  my  talking,  I 
know,"  added  the  doctor. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Sir  Austin,  "  I  am  quite  of  your 
persuasion.     And  the  world  he  shall  see— now." 


inO  THE  OKDKAL  OF  RirilARD  FEVEREL. 

"  We  have  ili])j)e(l  luiu  in  Slyx,  you  know,  doelor,"  Adrian 
remark  c'll. 

"  ]Jut,  tloctor,"  said  Lady  Blandisli,  "  liavc  you  known  a 
case  of  this  sort  before  ?  " 

"Never,  my  lady,"  said  the  doctor,  "they're  not  common 
in  these  parts.  Country  people  are  tolerably  healthy. 
minded." 

"  But  people — and  country  people — have  died  for  lovo, 
doctor  H  " 

The  doctor  had  not  met  any  of  them. 

"  Men,  or  women  ?  "  inquired  the  baronet. 

Lady  lilandish  believed  mo.stly  women. 

"  Ask  the  doctor  whether  they  were  hcalthy-inindcd 
women.''  said  the  baronet.  "  No  !  you  are  both  looking  at  the 
wrong  end.  Between  a  hig'hly-cultured  bcinq',  and  an  emo- 
tionless animal,  there  is  all  the  ditt'erence  in  the  world.  But 
of  the  two,  the  doctor  is  nearer  the  truth.  The  healthy 
nature  is  pretty  safe.  If  he  allowed  for  organization  he 
would  be  right  altogether.  To  feel,  but  not  to  i'eelto  excess, 
that  is  the  problem." 

"  If  I  can't  have  the  one  I  chose, 
To  some  fresh  maid  I  will  propose." 

Adi'ian  hammed  a  country  ballad. 

"  That  couplet,"  said  Sir  Austin,  "  exactly  typifies  the  doc- 
tor's hero.  I  think  he  must  admire  Agamemnon — eh,  doctor  ? 
Chryse'is  taken  from  us,  let  us  seize  Bryse'is  ! — Childi-en  cry, 
but  don't  die,  for  their  lumps  of  sugar.  When  they  grow 
older,  they " 

"  Simply  have  a  stronger  appreciation  of  the  sugar,  and 
make  a  gie;iter  noise  to  obtain  it,"  Adrian  took  him  up,  and 
elicited  the  smile  which  usually  terminated  any  dispute  he 
joined. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

OF  TUB  SPRING  PRIMROSE  AND  THE   AUTUMNAL. 

When  the  young  Experiment  again  knew  the  hours  that 
rolled  bim  onward,  he  was  in  his  own  room  at  Raynhara. 
Nothing  had  changed  :  only  a  strong  fist  had  knocked  him 


THE  SPIIIKG  AND  AUTUMN  P1?TMP>0SE.  Tjl 

down  and  stunned  him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  to  a  grey 
vvorld  :  he  had  foi-gotten  what  he  lived  for.  He  was  weak 
and  thin,  and  with  a  pale  memory  of  things.  His  functions 
were  the  same,  everything  sarrounding  him  was  the  same: 
he  looked  upon  the  old  blue  hills,  the  far-lying  fallows,  the 
river,  and  the  woods  :  he  knew  them,  and  they  seemed  to  have 
lost  recollection  of  him.  Nor  could  he  find  in  familiar  human 
faces  the  secret  of  intimacy  of  heretofore  They  were  the  same 
faces  :  they  nodded  and  smiled  to  him.  What  was  lost  he 
could  not  tell.  Something  had  been  knocked  out  of  him  ! 
He  was  sensible  of  his  father's  sweetness  of  manner,  and  he 
was  grieved  that  he  could  not  reply  to  it,  for  every  sense  of 
shame  and  reproach  had  strangely  gone.  He  felt  very  use- 
less. In  place  of  the  fiery  love  for  one,  he  now  bore  about  a 
cold  charity  to  all. 

Thus  in  the  heart  of  the  young  man  died  the  Spring  Prim, 
rose,  and  while  it  died  another  heart  was  pushing  forth  tlie 
Primrose  of  Autumn. 

The  wonderful  change  in  Richard,  and  the  wisdom  of  her 
admirer,  now  positively  proved,  were  exciting  matters  to 
Lady  Blandish.  She  was  rebuked  foi  certain  little  rebellious 
fancies  concerning  him  that  had  come  across  hei  enslaved 
mind  from  time  to  time.  For  was  he  not  almost  a  prophet  ? 
It  distressed  the  sentimental  lady  that  a  love  like  Richard's 
could  pass  off  in  mere  smoke,  and  words  such  as  she  had 
heard  him  speak  in  Abbey- wood  resolve  to  emptiness.  Nay, 
it  humiliated  her  personally,  and  the  baronet's  shrewd  prog- 
nostication humilitated  her.  For  how  should  he  know,  and 
•  dare  to  say,  that  love  was  a  thing  of  the  dust  that  could  be 
trodden  out  under  the  heel  of  science  ?  But  he  had  said  so, 
and  he  had  proved  himself  right.  She  heard  with  wonder, 
ment  that  Ricluu'd  of  his  own  accord  had  spoken  to  his 
father  of  the  folly  he  had  been  guilty  of,  and  had  begged  his 
pardon.  The  baronet  told  her  this,  adding  that  the  youth 
had  done  it  in  a  cold  unwavering  way,  without  a  movement 
of  his  features  :  had  evidently  done  it  to  throw  off  the 
buT'dcn  of  the  dnty  he  had  conceived.  He  had  thought  him- 
self bound  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  been  the  Foolish 
Young  Fellow,  wishing,  possibly,  to  abjuT^e  the  fact  by  an 
act  of  penance.  He  had  also  given  satisfaction  to  Benson, 
and  was  become  a  renovated  peaceful  spirit,  whose  ir;aiu 
object  apjjcared  tobetogetupliis  physical  strength  by  exercise 


102  THE  ORDEAL  OF  niCnAED  FEVEREL. 

Riid  no  cxpoiulituro  of  speech.  In  her  company  he  was  com- 
jiosed  anil  courteous  ;  even  when  tliey  were  alone  toj^cther. 
iie  did  not  exhibit  a  trace  of  melancholy.  Sober  he  seemed, 
as  one  who  has  recovered  fi-om  a  drunkenness  and  has 
determined  to  drink  no  more.  The  idea  struck  her  that  he 
mitrht  be  playing  a  part,  but  Tom  Bakewell,  in  a  private  con- 
versation they  had,  infoi-med  her  that  he  had  received  an 
oi'der  from  his  young  master,  one  day  while  boxing  with 
him,  not  to  mention  the  young  lady's  name  to  him  so  long  as 
he  lived :  and  Tom  could  only  suppose  that  she  had  offended 
him.  Theoretically  wise  Lady  Blandish  had  always  thought 
the  baronet ;  she  was  unpi-cpared  to  find  him  thus  prac- 
tically sagacious.  She  fell  many  degrees ;  she  wanted  some- 
thing to  cling  to  ;  so  she  clung  to  the  man  who  struck  her 
low.  Love,  then,  was  earthly ;  its  depth  could  be  probed 
by  science  !  A  man  lived  who  could  measure  it  from  end  to 
end  ;  foretell  its  tei-m  ;  handle  the  young  cherub  as  were  he 
a  shot  owl  !  We  who  have  flown  into  cousinship  with  the 
empyrean,  and  disported  among  inimortal  hosts,  onr  base 
bii'th  as  a  child  of  Time  is  made  baie  to  us  ! — our  wings  are 
cut !  Oh,  then,  if  science  is  this  victorious  enemy  of  love, 
let  us  love  science  !  was  the  logic  of  the  lady's  heart;  and 
secretly  cherishing  the  assurance  that  she  should  confute 
him  yet,  and  prove  him  utterly  wrong,  she  gave  him  the 
fniits  of  present  success,  as  it  is  a  habit  of  women  to  do ; 
involuntarily  partly.  The  fires  took  hold  of  her.  She  felt 
soft  emotions  such  as  a  girl  feels,  and  they  flattered  her.  It 
■was  like  youth  coming  back.  Pure  women  have  a  second 
youth.     The  Autumn  primrose  flourished. 

We  are  advised  by  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  that — 

"  The  ways  of  women,  which  are  Involution,  and  their 
practices,  which  are  Opposition,  are  generally  best  hit  upon 
by  guess  work,  and  a  bold  word ;  " — it  being  impossible  to 
track  them  and  hunt  them  down  in  the  ordinary  style. 

So  that  we  may  not  ourselves  become  involved  and  opposed, 
let  us  each  of  us  venture  a  guess  and  say  a  bold  word  as  to 
how  it  came  that  the  lady,  who  trusted  love  to  be  eternal, 
grovelled  to  him  that  shattered  her  tender  faith,  and  loved 
Lim. 

Hitherto  it  had  been  simply  a  sentimental  dalliance,  and 
gossips  had  maligned  the  lady.  Just  wlicu  the  gossips  grew 
tired  of  their  slander,  and  inclined  to  look  upon  her  chai-ita. 


THE  SPRING  AND  AUTUMN  PRIMROSE.  103 

bly,  she  set  about  to  deserve  every  word  they  had  said  of  lier  , 
whicli  may  insti-nct  us,  if  you  please,  that  gossips  have  only 
to  persist  in  lying  to  be  ci-owned  with  verity,  or  that  one  has 
only  to  endure  evil  mouths  for  a  j^ei-iod  to  gain  impunity. 
She  was  always  at  the  Abbey  now.  She  was  much  closeted 
with  the  baronet.  It  seemed  to  be  understood  that  she  had 
taken  Mrs.  Doria's  place.  Benson  in  his  misogynic  soul  per- 
ceived that  she  was  taking  Lady  Feverel's  :  but  any  report 
circulated  by  Benson  was  sui-e  to  meet  discredit,  and  drew 
the  gossips  upon  himself  ;  which  made  his  meditations  tragic. 
iS'o  sooner  was  one  woman  defeated  than  another  took  the 
field  !  The  object  of  the  System  was  no  sooner  safe  tlian  its 
great  author  was  in  danger  1 

"  I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  Benson,"  he  said  to 
Adrian. 

"  He  seems  to  have  received  a  fresh  legacy  of  several 
pounds  of  lead,"  returned  the  wise  youth,  and  imitating  Dr. 
Clifford's  raanner.  "  Change  is  what  he  wants  !  distraction  ! 
send  him  to  Wales,  sir,  for  a  month,  and  let  Richard  go  with 
him.     The  two  victims  of  woman  may  do  each  other  good." 

"  Unfortunately  I  can't  do  without  him,"  said  the  baronet. 

"  Then  we  must  continue  to  have  him  on  our  shoulders  all 
day,  and  on  our  chests  all  night !"  Adrian  ejaculated. 

"  I  think  while  he  preserves  this  aspect  we  won't  have 
him  at  the  dinner-table,"  said  the  baronet. 

Adrian  thought  that  would  be  a  relief  to  their  digestions  ; 
and  added  :  You  know,  sir,  what  he  says  ?  " 

Receiving  a  negative,  Adrian  delicately  explained  to  him 
that  Benson's  excessive  ponderosity  of  demeanour  was  caused 
by  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  his  master. 

"You  must  pardon  a  faithful  fool,  sir,"  he  continued,  for 
the  baronet  became  red,  and  exclaimed: 

"His  stupidity  is  past  1  eUof  I  I  have  absolutely  to  bolt 
my  study-door  agamst  him." 

"  Have  you,  indeed,  sir !  "  said  Adrian,  and  at  once  beheld 
a  charming  scene  in  the  interior  of  the  study,  not  unlike  one 
that  Benson  had  visually  witnessed.  For,  like  a  wary 
prophet,  Benson,  that  he  might  have  warrant  for  what  he 
foretold  of  the  future,  had  a  care  to  spy  upon  the  present: 
warned  haply  by  The  Pii.guim's  Scrip,  of  which  he  was  a 
diiigent  re.ader,  and  which  says,  rathei-  emphatically; 
"Could  we  see  Time's  full  face,  wc  were  wise  of  him."  Now 

o 


194  THE  ORPEAL  OF  RICHARD  FE\"EREL. 

to  see  Time's  full  face,  it.  is  sometimes  necessary  to  look 
through  keyholes,  the  vetemn  having  a  trick  of  srailitig 
pcaco  to  you  on  one  cheek  and  grimacing  confusion  on  tlio 
other  behind  the  curtain.  Decency  and  a  sense  of  honour 
restrain  most  of  us  from  being  thus  wise  and  miserable  for 
ever.  Benson's  excuse  was  that  he  believed  in  his  master, 
who  was  menaced.  And  moreover,  notwithstanding  his 
previous  tribulation,  to  spy  upon  Cupid  was  sweet  to  him.  So 
he  peeped,  and  he  saw  a  sight.  He  saw  Time's  full  face ;  or, 
in  other  words,  he  saw  the  wiles  of  woman  and  the  weakness 
of  man :  which  is  our  history,  as  Benson  would  have  written 
it,  and  a  great  many  poets  and  philosophers  have  written  it. 

Yet  it  was  but  the  plucking  of  the  Autumn  primrose  that 
Benson  had  seen :  a  somewhat  difFerent  operation  from  the 
plucking  of  the  Spring  one :  very  innocent  !  Our  staid 
elderly  sister  has  paler  blood,  and  has,  or  thinks  she  has,  a 
reason  or  two  about  the  roots.  She  is  not  all  instinct.  "  For 
this  high  cause,  and  for  that  I  know  men,  and  know  him  to 
be  the  flower  of  men,  I  give  myself  to  him  !  "  She  makes 
that  lofty  inward  exclamation  while  the  hand  is  detaching 
her  from  the  roots.  Even  so  strong  a  self-justification  she 
requires.  She  has  not  that  blind  glory  in  excess  which  her 
younger  sister  can  gild  the  longest  leap  with.  And  if,  moth- 
like,  she  desires  the  star,  she  is  nervously  cautious  of  candles. 
Hence  her  circles  about  the  dangerous  human  flame  are  wide 
and  shy.  She  must  be  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  by  a  fresh 
reason.  She  loves  to  sentimentalize.  Lady  Blandish  had 
been  sentimentalizing  for  ten  years.  She  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  pursue  the  game.  The  dark-eyed  dame  was  pleased 
with  her  smooth  life  and  the  soft  excitement  that  did  not 
raffle  it.     Not  willingly  did  she  let  herself  be  won. 

"  Sentimentalists,"  says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "  are  they 
who  seek  to  enjoy  without  incurring  the  Immense  Debtor- 
ship  for  a  thing  done." 

"  It  is,"  the  writer  says  of  Sentim.entalism  elsewhere,  "  a 
happy  pastime  and  an  important  science  to  the  timid,  the 
idle,  and  the  heartless  ;  but  a  damning  one  to  them  who 
have  anything  to  forfeit." 

However,  one  who  could  set  down  the  dying  for  love,  as 
a  sentimentalism,  can  hardly  be  accepted  as  a  clear  autho- 
rity. Assuredly  he  was  not  one  to  avoid  the  incurring  ot  the 
immense  debtorship  in  any  way:    but  b**  was   a  bondman 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  195 

etill  to  the  woman  who  had  forsaken  him,  and  a  spoken 
word  would  have  made  it  seem  his  duty  to  face  that 
public  scandal  which  was  the  last  evil  to  him.  What  had 
so  horrified  the  virtuous  Benson,  Richard  had  already  beheld 
in  Daphne's  Bower;  a  simple  kissin*:^  of  the  fair  white  hand  ! 
Doubtless  the  keyhole  somehow  added  to  Benson's  horror. 
The  two  similar  performances,  so  very  innocent,  had  won- 
drous onposite  consequences.  The  first  kindled  Richard  to 
adore  Woman;  the  second  destroyed  Benson's  faith  in  Man. 
But  Lady  Blandish  knew  the  difference  between  the  two. 
She  understood  why  the  baronet  did  not  speak  ;  excused, 
and  respected  him  for  it.  She  was  content,  since  she  must 
love,  to  love  humbly,  and  she  had,  besides,  her  pity  for  his 
sorrows  to  comfort  her.  A  hundred  fresh  reasons  for 
loving- him  arose  and  multiplied  every  day.  He  read  to  her 
the  secret  book  in  his  own  handwriting,  composed  for 
Richard's  Marriage  Guide  :  containing  Advice  and  Directions 
to  a  Young  Husband,  full  of  the  most  tender  wisdom  and 
delicacy;  so  she  thought;  nay,  not  wanting  in  poetry, 
though  neither  rhymed  nor  measured.  He  expounded  to  her 
the  distinctive  character  of  the  divers  ages  of  love,  giving 
the  palm  to  the  flower  she  put  forth,  over  that  of  Spring,  or 
the  Summer  rose.  And  while  they  sat  and  talked,  "  My 
wound  was  healed,"  he  said.  "  How  ?  "  she  asked.  "  At 
the  fountain  of  your  eyes,"  he  replied,  and  drew  the  joy  of 
now  life  from  her  blushes,  without  incurring  further  debtor- 
ship  for  a  thing  done. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN  WHICH  THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP. 

Let  it  be  some  apology  for  the  damage  caused  by  tho 
careering  hero,  and  a  consolation  to  the  quiet  wretches, 
dragged  along  with  him  at  his  chariot-wheels,  that  he  is 
generally  the  last  to  know  when  he  has  made  an  actual  start ; 
such  a  mere  creature  is  he,  like  the  rest  of  us,  albeit  the  head 
of  our  fates.  By  this  you  perceive  the  true  hero,  whether 
he  be  a  prince  or  a  potboy,  th.\t;  he  does  not  plot ;  Fortune 
does  all  for  him.  He  may  be  compared  to  one  to  whom,  in  an 
electric  circle,  it  is  given  to  carry  the  battery.     We  caper  and 

o2 


IOC)  THE  ORDF.AI.  OK  RTClIAnn  FF.VmEL. 

fjriniacc  at.  liis  will  ;  yd  not.  his  tlio  will,  not.  his  the  pnwor. 
'Tis  all  Foituiio's,  wliti.se  piijipct.  he  is.  Slio  deals  her  dis- 
])eiisati()ns  Ihrous^h  him.  Yea,  though  our  cajiers  l)e  never 
so  eoniieal,  ho  laughs  not.  Intent  upon  his  own  business,  thf 
true  hero  asks  little  sei-viees  of  us  here  and  thei-e;  thiidcs  it 
quite  natui-al  that  they  should  be  aeceded  to,  and  sees 
nothing  ridieulous  in  the  lamentable  contortions  we  must  go 
through  to  fullil  them.  Probably  he  is  the  elect  of  Fortune, 
because  of  that  notable  faculty  of  being  intent  upon  his  own 
business:  "  Which  is,"  says  The  Pilgkim's  Scrip,  "  with  men 
to  be  valued  equal  to  that  force  which  in  water  makes  a 
stream."  This  prelude  was  necessary  to  the  present  chapter 
of  Richard's  history. 

It  happened  that  in  the  turn  of  the  year,  and  while  old 
earth  was  busy  with  her  flowers,  the  fiesh  wind  blew,  the 
little  bird  sang,  and  Hippias  Feverel,  the  Dyspepsy,  amazed, 
felt  the  Spring  move  within  him.  He  communicated  his 
delightful  new  sensations  to  the  baronet,  his  brother,  whose 
constant  exclamation  with  regard  to  him,  was  :  "  Poor  Hip- 
pias !  All  his  machinery  is  bare  !  "  and  had  no  hope  that  he 
would  ever  be  in  a  condition  to  defend  it  from  view.  Never- 
theless  Hippias  had  that  hope,  and  so  he  told  his  brother, 
making  great  exposure  of  his  machinery  to  effect  the  expla- 
nation. He  spoke  of  all  his  physical  experiences  exultingly, 
and  with  wonder.  The  achievement  of  common  efforts,  not 
usually  blazoned,  he  celebrated  as  mighty  triumphs,  and, 
of  course,  had  Adrian  on  his  back  very  quickly.  But  he 
could  bear  him,  or  anything,  now.  It  was  such  ineffable 
relief  to  find  himself  looking  out  upon  the  world  of  mortals 
instead  of  into  the  black  phantasmal  abysses  of  his  own  com- 
plicated frightful  structure.  "My  mind  doesn't  so  much 
seem  to  haunt  itself,  now,"  said  Hippias,  nodding  shortly 
and  peering  out  of  intense  puckei-s  to  convey  a  glimpse  of 
what  hellish  sufferings  his  had  been :  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
come  aboveground." 

A  poor  Dyspepsy  may  talk  as  he  will,  but  he  is  the  one 
who  never  gets  sympathy,  or  experiences  compassion  :  and  it 
is  he  whose  groaning  petitions  for  charity  do  at  last  rout 
tbal  Christian  virtue.  Lady  Blandish,  a  charitable  sou', 
could  not  listen  to  Hippies,  tliough  she  had  a  heart  for  little 
mice  and  flies,  and  Sir  Austin  had  also  small  patience  with 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  197 

his  brother's  gleam  of  health,  Avhich  was  just  enough  to  make 
his  disease  visible.  He  remembered  his  early  follies  and 
excesses,  and  bent  his  ear  to  him  as  one  man  does  to  another 
who  complains  of  having  to  pay  a  debt  legally  incurred. 

"  I  think,"  said  Adrian,  seeing  how  the  communications 
of  Hippias  were  received,  "  that  when  our  Nemesis  takes 
lodgings  in  the  stomach,  it's  best  to  act  the  Spartan,  smile 
hard,  and  be  silent." 

"  Exactly,"  replied  the  baronet.  "  Mankind  has  an 
instinctive  disgust  for  the  victims  of  those  appetites.  We 
pity  any  other  functional  derangement  than  that." 

Richard  alone  was  decently  kind  to  Hippias  ;  whether 
from  opposition,  or  real  aifection,  could  not  be  said,  as  the 
young  man  was  mysterious.  He  advised  his  uncle  to  take 
exercise,  walked  with  him,  cultivated  cheerful  impressions 
in  him,  and  pointed  out  innocent  pursuits.  He  made  Hip- 
pias visit  with  him  some  of  the  poor  old  folk  of  the  village, 
who  bewailed  the  loss  of  his  cousin  Austin  Wentworth,  and 
did  his  best  to  waken  him  up,  and  give  the  outer  world  a 
stronger  hold  on  him.  He  succeeded  in  nothing  but  in  win- 
ning his  uncle's  gratitude.  The  season  bloomed  scarce  longer 
tlian  a  week  for  Hippias,  and  then  began  to  languish.  The 
poor  Dyspepsy's  eager  grasp  at  beatification  relaxed :  he 
went  underground  again.  He  announced  that  he  felt  "  spongy 
things  " — one  of  the  more  constant  miseries  of  his  malady. 
His  bitter  face  recurred  :  he  chewed  the  cud  of  horrid  hallu- 
cinations. He  told  Richard  he  must  give  up  going  about  with 
him  :  people  telling  of  their  ailments  made  him  so  uncom- 
fortable— the  birds  were  so  noisy,  pairing — the  rude  bare 
soil  sickened  him. 

"  JJesides,"  said  Hippias,  "it's  singular,  but  at  this  time  of 
the  year,  Richard,  I  always  have  the  same  idea.  I  can't  go 
out  and  see  a  garden  without  thinking  I  ought  to  be  upside 
down,  and  have  the  bulbous  part  underneath  me,  like  those 
• — what  do  you  call  those  flowers  ? — yes,  like  those  crocuses. 
And  you  cant  imagine  how  disti'essing  it  i-eally  is  when  you 
think  those  things  in  earnest." 

Richard  treated  him  with  a  gi-avity  equal  to  his  father's. 
He  asked  what  the  doctors  said. 

"  Oh  !  the  doctors  !  "  cried  Hippias  with  vehement  scepti- 
cism. "  No  man  of  sense  believes  in  medicine  for  chronio 
disorder.     Do  you  happen  to  have  iieard  of  any  new  remedy 


ir>8  THE  ORPKAL  OF  RirTTA'RD  FFVFRKTi. 

tlion,  Kic^liard  ?  No?  They  advertize  a  great  many  on  res 
for  iiuligvstiou,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  boy.  I  woiuler 
"whether  one  can  rely  upon  the  authenticity  of  those  signa- 
tures r"  I  see  no  reason  why  there  should  be  no  cure  for 
such  a  disease  ? — Eh  ?  And  it's  just  one  of  the  things  a 
quack,  as  they  call  them,  would  hit  upon  sooner  than  one 
"who  is  in  the  beaten  track.  Do  3'ou  know,  Richard,  my  dear 
boy,  I've  often  thought  that  if  we  could  by  any  means  appro- 
priate to  our  use  some  of  the  extraordinary  digestive  power 
that  a  boa  constrictor  has  in  his  gastric  juices,  there  is  really 
no  manner  of  reason  why  we  should  not  comfortably  dispose 
of  as  much  of  an  ox  as  our  stomachs  will  hold,  and  one 
might  eat  French  dishes  without  the  wretchedness  of  think- 
ing what's  to  follow.  And  this  makes  me  think  that  those 
fellows  inay,  after  all,  have  got  some  truth  in  them :  some 
prodigious  secret  that,  of  course,  they  require  to  be  paid  for. 
We  distrust  each  other  in  this  world  too  much,  Richard. 
I've  felt  inclined  once  or  twice — but  it's  absurd  ! — If  it  only 
alleviated  a  few  of  my  sufferings  I  should  be  satisfied.  I've 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that  I  should  be  quite  satisfied  if  it 
only  did  away  with  one  or  two,  and  left  me  free  to  cat  and 
drink  as  other  people  do.  Not  that  I  mean  to  try  them.  It's 
only  a  fancy — Eh  ?  What  a  thing  health  is,  my  dear  boy! 
Ah  !  if  I  were  like  you  !     I  was  in  love  once  !  " 

"Were  you  !  "  said  Richard,  coolly  regarding  him. 

"  I've  forgotten  what  I  felt !  "  Hippias  sighed.  "  Tou've 
very  much  improved,  my  dear  boy." 

"  So  people  say,"  quoth  Richard. 

Hippias  looked  at  him  anxiously:  "If  I  go  to  town  and 
get  the  doctor's  opinion  about  trying  a  new  course — Eh, 
Richard  ?  wuU  you  come  with  me  ?  I  should  like  your  com- 
pany. We  could  see  London  together,  you  know.  Enjoy 
ourselves,"  and  Hippias  rubbed  his  hands. 

Richard  smiled  at  the  feeble  glimmer  of  enjoyment  pro- 
mised by  his  uncle's  eyes,  and  said  he  thought  it  better  they 
Bhould  stay  "O'here  they  were — an  answer  that  might  mean 
anything.  Hippias  immediately  became  possessed  by  the 
beguiling  project.  He  went  to  the  baronet,  and  put  the  matter 
before  him,  instancing  doctors  as  the  object  of  his  journey, 
Qot  quacks,  of  course ;  and  requesting  leave  to  take  Richard. 
Sir  Austin  was  getting  uneasy  about  his  son's  manner.  It 
was  not  natuial.     His  heart  seemed  to  be  frozen  :  he  had  no 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  l[)9 

confidences:  he  appeared  to  have  no  ambition — to  liave  lost 
the  virtues  of  youth  with  the  poison  tliat  had  passed  out  of 
him.  He  was  disposed  to  try  what  effect  a  little  travelling 
might  have  on  him,  and  had  himself  once  or  twice  hinted  to 
Richard  that  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  move  about,  the 
young  man  quietly  replying  that  he  did  not  wish  to  quit 
Eaynham  at  all,  which  was  too  strict  a  fulHlment  of  his 
father's  original  views  in  educating  him  there  entirely.  On 
the  day  that  Hippias  made  his  proposal,  Adrian,  seconded  by 
Lady  Blandish,  also  made  one.  The  sweet  Spring  season 
stirred  in  Adrian  as  well  as  in  others  :  not  to  pastoral  mea- 
sures :  to  the  joys  of  the  operatic  world  and  bravura  glories. 
He  also  suggested  that  it  would  be  adviseable  to  carry  Richard 
to  town  for  a  term,  and  let  him  know  his  position,  and  some 
freedom.  Sir  Austin  weighed  the  two  proposals.  He  was 
pretty  certain  that  Richard's  passion  was  consumed,  and  that 
he  was  now  only  under  the  burden  of  its  ashes.  He  had 
found  against  his  heart,  at  the  Bellingham  inn,  a  great  lock 
of  golden  hair.  He  had  taken  it,  and  the  lover,  after  feeling 
about  for  it  with  faint  hands,  nevei-  asked  for  it.  This  pre- 
cious lock  (Miss  Davenport  had  thrust  it  into  his  hand  at 
Belthorpe  as  Lucy's  last  gift),  what  sighs  and  tears  it  had 
weathered  !  The  baronet  laid  it  in  Richard's  sight  one  day, 
and  beheld  him  take  it  up,  turn  it  over,  and  drop  it  down 
again  calmly,  as  if  he  were  handling  any  common  curiosity. 
It  pacified  him  on  that  score.  The  young  man's  love  was 
dead.  Dr.  Clifford  said  rightly :  he  wanted  distractions. 
The  bai'onet  determined  that  Richard  should  go.  Hippiaa 
and  Adrian  then  pressed  their  several  suits  as  to  which 
should  have  him.  Hippias,  when  he  could  forget  himself, 
did  not  lack  sense.  He  observed  that  Adrian  was  not  at 
present  a  proper  companion  for  Richard,  and  would  teach 
him  to  look  on  life  from  the  false  point. 

"  You  don't  understand  a  young  philosopher,"  said  the 
baronet. 

"  A  young  philosopher's  an  old  fool  1  "  returned  Hippias, 
not  ihinkiiig  that  his  growl  had  begotten  a  phrase. 

His  brother  smiled  with  gratification,  and  applauded  him 
loudly  :  "  Excellent  !  worthy  of  your  best  days  I  That  is  as 
good  a  thing  as  I  have  heard,  Hippias.  You're  wrong, 
though,  in  ap])]ying  it  to  Adrian.  He  has  never  been  pre. 
cocious.     All  he  has  done  has  been  to  bring  sound  comnioa 


200  THE  OKPEAT,  OF  RICIIAItn  FKVEItKL. 

sense  to  boar  ujion  what  ho  hoars  and  scos.  1  Miink,  how- 
ever," tlie  baronet  atUled,  "  ho  may  want  faith  in  the  bettor 
qualities  of  men."  And  this  rcHection  inclined  him  not  to 
let  his  son  bo  alone  with  Adrian.  He  gave  Richard  his 
choice,  who  saw  which  way  his  father's  wishes  tended,  and 
dcciiled  so  to  please  him.  Naturally  it  annoyed  Adrian  ex- 
tremely.    He  said  to  his  chief : 

"  1  suppose  you  know  what  you  are  doing,  sir.  I  don't 
see  that  we  derive  any  advantage  from  the  family  name 
being  made  notorious  for  twenty  years  of  obscene  suiforing, 
and  becoming  a  byword  for  our  constitutional  tendency 
to  stomachic  distension  before  we  fortunately  encountered 
Quackem's  Pill.  My  uncle's  tortures  have  been  huge,  but  I 
"would  rather  society  were  not  intimate  with  them  under  their 
several  headings."  Adrian  enumerated  some  of  the  most 
abhorrent.  "  You  know  him,  sir.  If  he  conceives  a  duty,  he 
■will  do  it  in  the  face  of  every  decency — all  the  more 
obstinate  because  the  conception  is  rare.  If  he  feels  a  little 
brisk,  the  morning  after  the  pill,  he  sends  the  letter  that 
makes  us  famous  !  We  go  down  to  posterity  with  height- 
ened characteristics,  to  say  nothing  of  a  contemporaiy 
celebrity  nothing  less  than  our  being  turned  insidc-out  to 
the  rabble.  I  confess  I  don't  desire  to  have  my  machinery 
made  bare  to  them." 

Sir  Austin  assured  the  wise  youtb  that  Hippias  had 
arranged  to  go  to  Dr.  Bairam.  He  softened  Adrian's  chagi-in 
by  telling  him  that  in  about  two  weeks  they  would  follow  to 
London:  hinting  also  at  a  prospective  Summer  campaign. 
The  day  was  fixed  for  Richard  to  depart,  and  the  day  came. 
Madame  the  Eighteenth  Century  called  him  to  her  chamber 
and  put  into  his  hand  a  fifty-pound  note,  as  her  contribution 
toward  his  pocket-expenses.  He  did  not  want  it,  he  said, 
but  she  told  him  he  was  a  young  man,  and  would  soon  make 
that  fly  when  he  stood  on  his  own  feet.  The  old  lady  did 
not  at  all  approve  of  the  System  in  her  heart,  and  she  gave 
her  grand-nephew  to  understand  that,  should  he  require 
more,  he  knew  where  to  apply,  and  secrets  would  be  kept. 
Hi.s  father  presented  him  with  a  hundred  pounds — which 
also  Richard  said  he  did  not  want — he  did  not  care  for 
money.  "  Spend  it  or  not,"  said  the  baronet,  perfectly  secure 
in  him.  All  he  desired  of  him  was  to  go  and  see  the  Graudi- 
Buns,  and  give  his  luve  to  little  Carola. 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  201 

"I  wonder  how  my  cabbage-rose  is  looking,"  Richard 
remarked.  "  She  was  disappointed  at  not  seeing  me  when 
she  came,  wasn't  she,  sir  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  cried  about  you,"  said  the  baronet,  content  to 
hear  his  son  add  :  "  Poor  little  thing  !"  however  coldly. 

Hippias  had  few  injunctions  to  observe,  beyond  that  of 
going  to  the  Grandisons.  They  were  to  take  up  quarters  at 
the  hotel,  Algernon's  general  run  of  company  at  the  house 
not  being  altogether  wholesome.  The  baronet  particularly 
forewarned  Hippias  of  the  imprudence  of  attempting  to 
restrict  the  young  man's  movements,  and  letting  him  imagine 
he  was  under  surveillance.  Richard  having  been,  as  it  were, 
pollai'ded  by  despotism,  was  now  to  grow  up  straight,  and 
bloom  again,  in  complete  independence,  as  far  as  he  could 
feel.  So  did  the  sage  decree  ;  and  we  may  pause  a  moment 
to  reflect  how  wise  were  his  previsions,  and  how  successful 
they  must  have  been,  had  not  Fortune,  the  great  foe  to  human 
clevei'ness,  turned  against  him. 

The  departure  took  place  on  a  fine  l\Iarch  morning.  The 
bird  of  Winter  sang  from  the  budding  tree  ;  in  the  blue  sky 
sang  the  bird  of  Summer.  Adi'ian  rode  between  Richard  and 
Hippias  to  the  Bellingham  station,  and  vented  his  disgust 
on  them  after  his  own  humorous  fashion,  because  it  did  not 
rain  and  damp  their  ardour.  In  the  rear  came  Lady  Blandish 
and  the  baronet,  conversing  on  the  calm  summit  of  success. 

"  You  have  shaped  him  exactly  to  resemble  yourself,"  she 
said,  pointing  with  her  riding-whip  to  the  grave  stately  figure 
of  the  young  man. 

"  Outwardly,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  and  led  to  a  discussion 
on  Purity  and  Strength,  the  lady  saying  that  she  preferred 
Purity. 

"  But  you  jAo  not,"  said  the  baronet.  "  And  there  I  admire 
the  always  true  instinct  of  woman,  that  they  all  woi-sliip 
Strength  in  whatever  form,  and  seem  to  know  it  to  be  the 
child  of  heaven ;  whereas  Purity  is  but  a  characteristic,  a 
gai-ment,  and  can  be  spotted  —  how  soon!  For  there  ai'o 
questions  in  this  life  with  which  we  must  grapple  or  be  lost, 
and  when,  hunted  by  that  cold  eye  of  intense  inner-con- 
sciousness, the  clearest  soul  becomes  a  cunning  fox,  if  it  have 
not  courage  to  stand  and  do  battle.  Strength  indicates  a 
boundh^ss  nature  —like  tlie  Maker.  Strength  is  a  God  to 
you — Purify    a    toy.      A    picUy    one,    and  you.    seem    to    be 


202  TIIF  onpEAL  OF  niCTIAT^D  FKVEREL, 

fonil  of  playin!::^^  with  it,"  ho  luldcd,  ^vith  unaccustomed 
slynoss. 

The  \m\y  listi'iu'il,  pU^asoJ  at  the  spoitivo  malico  which 
showed  that  tho  constraint  on  his  mind  liad  left  him.  It  was 
for  women  to  light  t  heii-  light  now  ;  she  only  took  part  in  it 
for  nmnsenient.  This  is  how  the  ranks  of  our  enemies  arc 
thinned  ;  no  sooner  do  poor  women  put  up  a  champion  in 
their  midst  than  slie  betrays  them. 

"  I  sec,"  she  said  archly,  "  we  are  the  lovelier  vessels  ;  you 
claim  tlie  more  direct  descent.  Men  are  seedlings :  Women 
— slips !  Nay,  you  have  said  so,"  she  cried  out  at  his 
gestured  protestation,  laughing. 

"  Jiut  I  never  printed  it." 

"  Oh  !  what  you  speak  answers  for  print  with  me." 

Exquisite  Blandish !  He  could  not  choose  but  love 
her. 

"  Tell  me  what  are  your  plans  ?"  she  asked.  "  May  a 
woman  know  ?" 

He  rejilied,  "  I  have  none  or  you  would  share  them.  I 
shall  study  him  in  the  world.  This  indifference  must  wear 
off.  I  shall  mark  his  inclinations  now,  and  he  shall  be  what 
he  inclines  to.  Occupation  will  be  his  prime  safety.  That, 
and  the  feeling  of  guardianship  to  this  child.  His  cousin 
Austin's  plan  of  life  appears  most  to  his  taste,  and  he  can 
serve  the  people  that  way  as  well  as  in  Parliament,  should 
he  have  no  stronger  ambition.  The  clear  duty  of  a  man  of 
any  wealth  is  to  serve  the  people  as  he  best  can.  He  shall 
go  among  Austin's  set,  if  he  wishes  it,  though  personally  I 
find  no  pleasure  in  rash  imaginations,  and  undigested  schemes 
built  upon  the  mere  instinct  of  principles." 

*'  Look  at  him  now,"  said  the  lady.  "  He  seems  to  care 
for  nothing ;  not  even  for  the  beauty  of  the  day." 

"  Or  Adrian's  jokes,"  added  the  baronet. 

Adrian  could  be  seen  to  be  trying  zealously  to  torment  a 
laugh,  or  a  confession  of  ii-ritation,  out  of  his  hearei's,  stretch- 
ing out  his  chin  to  one,  and  to  the  other,  with  audible  asides. 
Richard  he  treated  as  a  new  insti-ument  of  destruction  about 
to  be  let  loose  on  the  slumbering  metropolis ;  Hippias  as  one 
in  an  interesting  condition  ;  and  he  got  so  much  fun  out  of 
the  notion  of  these  two  journeying  together,  and  the  mishaps 
that  might  occur  to  them,  that  he  esteemed  it  almost  a  per- 
Bonal  iii-sult  for  his  hearers  not  to  laugh.     The  wise  youth's 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  203 

dull  life  at  Raynham  had  afflicted  him  with  many  peculiarities 
of  the  professional  joker. 

"  Oh  !  the  Spring !  the  Spring !  "  he  cried,  as  in  scorn  of 
his  sallies  they  exchanged  their  unmeaning  remarks  on  the 
sweet  weather  across  him.  "  You  seem  both  to  be  uncom- 
monly excited  by  the  operations  of  turtles,  rooks,  and  daws. 
Why  can't  you  let  them  alone  ? 

« Wind  bloweth, 
Cock  croweth, 

Doodie-doo ; 
Hippy  verteth, 
Ricky  sterteth, 

Sing  Cuckoo ! 

There's  an  old  native  pastoral  ! — Why  don't  you  write  a 

Spring  sonnet,  Ricky  ?  The  asparagus-beds  are  full  of  pro- 
mise, I  hear,  and  eke  the  strawberry.  No  lack  of  inspiration 
for  you.  Berries  I  fancy  your  Pegasus  has  a  taste  for. 
What  kind  of  berry  was  that  I  saw  some  verses  of  yours 
about  once  ? — amatory  verses  to  some  kind  of  berry — yew- 
beri'y,  blueberry,  glueberry  !  I  can't  remember  rightly. 
Pretty  verses,  though  decidedly  warm.  Lips,  eyes,  bosom, 
legs — legs  ?  I  don't  think  you  gave  her  any  legs.  No  legs 
and  no  nose.  That  appears  to  be  the  poetic  taste  of  the  day. 
It  shall  be  admitted  that  you  create  the  very  beauties  for  a 
chaste  people. 

'  O  might  I  lie  where  leans  her  lute  I ' 

and  offend  no  moral  community.  I  say,  that's  not  a  bad 
image  of  youi'Sy  my  dear  boy  : 

'  Her  shape  is  like  an  antelope 
Upon  the  Eastern  hills.' 

But  as  a  candid  critic,  I  would  ask  you  if  the  likeness  can 
be  consideied  correct  when  she  has  no  legs  ?  You  will  see 
at  the  ballet  that  you  are  quite  in  error  about  women  at 
present,  Richard.  That  admirable  institution  which  our 
venerable  elders  have  imported  from  Gallia  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  our  gaping  youth,  will  edify  and  astonish  you.  I 
assure  you  I  used,  from  reading  TnE  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  to 
imagine  all  sorts  of  things  about  them,  till  I  was  taken 
there,  and  learnt  that  they  are  very  like  us  after  all,  and 
then  they  ceased  to  trouble  me.    Mystery  is  the  great  danger 


204  THE  ORPKAL  OF  riirilARD  FRVEnEL. 

t<i  youth,  my  son!  Mysfory  is  woman's  rodonljfalilo  weapon, 
()  Rii'liaril  of  tlio  Oitli'al  !  I'm  aware  that  you've  had  your 
K'ssons  in  anatomy,  but  iiotliing  will  pei'suade  you  that  an 
nnutominil  lij^uro  means  llesh  and  blood.  You  can't  realize 
the  fact.  Do  you  intend  to  imblish  when  you're  in  town  r 
It'll  bo  better  not  to  put  your  name.  Having  one's  name 
to  a  volume  of  poems  is  as  bad  as  to  an  advertizing  pill. 
My  uncle,  I  dread,  is  madly  bent  upon  returning  thanks 
publicly  for  the  pill,  so  you  must  be  content  to  let  Ignotua 
wear  your  laurels,  or  the  critics  will  confound  you  together. 
'  Notwithstanding  the  dejjlorable  state  of  this  gentleman's 
stomach,'  they  will  say,  '  the  Muse  and.  Cupid  have  taken  so 
strong  a  hold  on  him,  that  he  is  evidently  one  of  those  who, 
to  avoid  moie  punishable  transgressions,  must  commit  verse, 
and  we  prefer  to  attribute  any  shortcomings  which  it  may 
be  our  duty  to  indicate,  rather  to  the  utter  distraction  of  his 
internal  economy  than  to  a  want  of  natural  jiropensity.'  " 

"  I  will  send  you  an  early  copy,  Adrian,  when  I  publish," 
quoth  Richard.     "  Hark  at  that  old  blackbird,  uncle." 

"  Yes !  "  Hi{)pias  quavered,  looking  up  from  the  usual  sub- 
ject of  his  contemplation,  and  trying  to  take  an  interest  in 
him,  "  fine  old  fellow  !  " 

"  What  a  chuckle  he  gives  out  before  he  flies  !  Not  unlike 
July  nightingales.  You  know  that  bird  I  told  you  of — the 
blackbird  that  had  its  mate  shot,  and  used  to  come  to  sing  to 
old  dame  Bakewell's  bird  from  the  tree  opposite.  A  rascal 
knocked  it  over  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  the  dame  says 
her  bird  hasn't  sung  a  note  since." 

"  Extraordinary  !  "  Hippias  muttered  abstractedly.  "  I 
remember  the  verses." 

"  But  where's  your  moral  ? "  interposed  the  wrathful 
Adrian.     "  Where's  constancy  rewarded  ? 

•  The  ouzel-cock  so  black  of  hue, 
With  orange-tawny  bill  ; 
The  rascal  with  his  aim  so  trae ; 
The  Poet's  little  quill ! ' 

Wliere's  the  moral  of  that  ?  except  that  all's  game  to  the 
poet!  Certainly  we  have  a  noble  example  of  the  devoted- 
ness  of  the  female,  who  for  three  entire  da3's  refuses  to  make 
hei-self  heard,  on  account  of  a  defunct  male.  I  suppose 
that's  what  liicky  dwells  on." 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  205 

*'  As  yon  please,  my  dear  Adrian,"  says  Eicliard,  and 
points  out  larch-buds  to  his  uncle,  as  they  ride  by  the  young 
green  wood. 

The  wise  youth  was  driven  to  extremity.  Such  a  lapse 
from  his  pupil's  heroics  to  this  last  verge  of  Arcadian  cool- 
ness, Adrian  could  not  believe  in.  "  Hai-k  at  this  old  black- 
bird !  "  he  cried,  in  his  tui-n,  and  pretending  to  interpret  his 
fits  of  song : 

"  O  what  a  pretty  comedy! — Don't  we  wear  the  mask  well, 
my  Fiesco  ? — Genoa  will  be  our  own  to-morrow  ! — Only  wait 
until  the  train  has  started — jolly!  jolly!  jolly  I  We'll  be 
■winners  yet ! 

"  Not  a  bad  verse — eh,  Ricky  ?  my  Lucius  Junius  ! " 

"  You  do  the  blackbird  well,"  said  Richard,  and  looked  at 
him  in  a  manner  mildly  affable. 

Adi-ian  shrugged.  "  You're  a  young  man  of  wonderful 
powers,"  he  emphatically  observed ;  meaning  to  say  that 
Richard  quite  beat  him  ;  for  which  opinion  Richard  gravely 
thanked  him,  and  with  this  they  rode  into  Bellingham. 

There  was  young  Tom  Blaize  at  the  station,  in  his  Sunday 
beaver  and  gala  waistcoat  and  neckcloth,  coming  the  lord 
over  Tom  Bakewell,  who  had  preceded  his  master  in  charge 
of  the  baggage.  He  likewise  was  bound  for  London. 
Richard,  as  he  was  dismounting,  heard  Adi-ian  say  to  the 
baronet :  "  The  Beast,  sir,  appears  to  be  going  to  fetch 
Beauty;"  but  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  words.  Whether 
young  Tom  heard  them  or  not,  Adrian's  look  took  the  lord 
out  of  him,  and  he  shrunk  away  into  obscurity,  where  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  fashions  which  the  tailors  of  Belling- 
ham could  supply  to  him,  sat  upon  him  more  easily,  and  he 
was  not  unaccountably  stiffened  by  the  eyes  of  the  superiors 
whom  he  sought  to  rival.  The  baronet.  Lady  Blandish,  and 
Adrian  remained  on  horseback,  and  received  Richard's  adieux 
across  the  palings.  He  shook  hands  with  each  of  them  in 
the  same  kindly  cold  way,  eliciting  from  Adrian  a  marked 
encomium  on  his  style  of  doing  it.  The  train  came  up,  and 
Richard  stepped  after  his  uncle  into  one  of  the  cari-iages. 

Now  surely  there  will  come  an  age  when  the  presentation 
of  science  at  war  with  Fortune  and  the  Fates,  will  be  deemed 
the  true  epic  of  modern  life ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  scientific 
humanist  who,  by  dint  of  incessant  watchfulness,  has  main- 
tained  a    System    against   those   active  forces,  cannot  be 


20(5  Tiin  onnEAL  of  uiciiard  FEvrnEL. 

rtx'koncil  less  than  suMimo,  ovon  thouq-li  at  tlio  momont  he 
but  sit  upon  liis  liorso,  on  a  lino  ^farch  morniiit^  sucli  as  this, 
and  smilo  wistfully  to  beliold  the  sou  of  his  liuart,  his  System 
inournato,  wave  a  sorcno  adiou  to  tutelage,  neither  too  eager 
nor  morbidly  unwilling  to  try  his  luck  alone  for  a  term  of 
two  weeks.  At  ])resent,  I  am  aware,  an  audience  impatient 
for  blood  and  glory  scorns  the  stress  I  am  putting  on  inci- 
dents so  minute,  a  picture  so  little  imposing.  An  audience 
will  come  to  whom  it  will  be  given  to  see  the  elementary 
machinery  at  work :  who,  as  it  were,  from  some  slight  hint 
of  the  straws,  will  feel  the  winds  of  March  when  they  do  not 
blow.  To  them  will  nothing  be  trivial,  seeing  that  they  will 
Lave  in  their  eyes  the  invisible  conflict  going  on  around  us, 
•whose  features  a  nod,  a  smile,  a  laugh  of  ours  perpetually 
changes.  And  they  will  perceive,  moreover,  tluit  in  real  life 
all  hangs  together  :  the  train  is  laid  in  the  lifting  of  an  eye- 
brow, that  bursts  upon  the  field  of  thousands.  They  will  see 
the  links  of  things  as  they  pass,  and  wonder  not,  as  foolish 
people  now  do,  that  this  gi-oat  matter  came  out  of  that  small 
one. 

Such  an  audience,  then,  will  participate  in  the  baronet's 
gratification  at  his  son's  demeanour,  wherein  he  noted  the 
calm  bearing  of  experience  not  gained  in  the  usual  wanton 
■way :  and  will  not  be  without  some  excited  apprehension  at 
his  twinge  of  astonishment,  when,  just  as  the  train  went 
sliding  into  swiftness,  he  beheld  the  gi^ave,  cold,  self-pos- 
sessed young  man  throw  himself  back  in  the  carnage 
violently  laughing.  Science  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  that 
Sir  Austin  checked  his  mind  from  inquiring,  that  he  might 
keep  suspicion  at  a  distance,  but  he  thought  it  odd,  and  the 
jarring  sensation  that  ran  along  his  nerves  at  the  sight, 
remained  with  him  as  he  rode  home. 

Lady  Blandish's  tender  womanly  intuition  bade  her  say : 
"  You  see  it  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted.  He  has  got  his 
natural  spirits  already." 

"  It  was,"  Adrian  put  in  his  word,  "  the  exact  thing  he 
wanted.     His  spirits  have  returned  miraculously." 

"  Something  amused  him,"  said  the  baronet,  with  an  eye 
on  the  puffing  train. 

"  Probably  something  his  uncle  said  or  did,"  Lady  Blandish 
luggested,  and  led  oif  at  a  gallop. 


THE  HEBO  TAKES  A  STEP,  207 

Her  conjecture  ctanced  to  be  quite  connect.  The  cause  for 
Ricliard's  laughter  was  simple  enoug-h.  Hippias,  on  finding 
the  carriage-door  closed  on  him,  became  all  at  once  aware  of 
the  bright-haired  hope  which  dwells  in  Change,  for  one  who 
does  not  woo  her  too  frequently ;  and  to  express  his  sudden 
relief  from  mental  despondency  at  the  amorous  prospect,  the 
Dyspepsy  bent  and  gave  his  hands  a  sharp  rub  between  his 
legs :  which  unlucky  action  brought  Adrian's  pastoral, 

"  Hippy  verteth, 
Sing  cuckoo  I " 

in  such  comic  colours  before  Richard,  that  a  demon  of 
laughter  seized  him. 

«  Hippy  verteth  I  " 

Every  time  he  glanced  at  his  uncle  the  song  sprang  up,  and 
he  laughed  so  immoderately  that  it  looked  like  madness 
come  upon  him. 

"  Why,  why,  why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  my  dear 
"boy,"  said  Hippias,  and  was  provoked  by  the  contagious 
exercise  to  a  modest  "  ha !  ha  !  " 

"  Why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  uncle  ?  "  cried  Richai-d. 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  Hippias  chuckled. 

"  Nor  I,  uncle !     Sing,  cuckoo !  " 

They  laughed  themselves  into  the  pleasantest  mood 
imaginable,  Hippias  not  only  came  aboveground,  he  flew 
about  in  the  very  skies,  verting  like  any  blithe  creature  of 
the  season.  He  remembered  old  legal  jokes,  and  anecdotes 
of  Circuit;  and  Richard  laughed  at  them  all,  but  more  at 
him — he  was  so  genial,  and  childishly  fresh,  and  innocently 
joyful  at  his  own  transformation,  while  a  lurking  doubt  in 
the  bottom  of  his  eyes,  now  and  then,  that  it  might  not  last, 
and  that  he  must  go  underground  again,  lent  him  a  look  of 
pathos  and  humour  which  tickled  his  youthful  companion 
irresistibly,  and  made  his  heai-t  warm  to  him. 

"I  tell  you  what,  uncle,"  said  Richard,  "I  think  travel- 
ling's a  capital  thing." 

"  The  best  thing  in  the  world,  my  dear  boy,"  Hippias 
relumed.  "  It  makes  me  wish  I  had  given  up  that  Work  of 
mine,  and  tried  it  before,  instead  of  chaining  myself  to  a 
task.  We're  quite  different  beings  in  a  minute.  I  am. 
Hem !  what  shall  we  have  for  dinner  ?  " 


203  TRR  ORDEAL  OF  nirTIAHD  FEVEREL. 

"  Leave  that  to  mo,  nncle.  I  shall  order  for  you.  Yon 
know,  I  intoiul  to  iiiako  you  Avell.  How  gloriously  -we  go 
along !     I  should  like  to  ride  on  a  railway  every  day." 

llippias  assumed  a  mysterious  sadness,  and  remarked — 

"  Thov  say,  I've  beard,  liiehard,  that  it  rather  injures  the 
digestion." 

"  Nonsense  !  see  how  you'll  digest  to-night  and  to- 
morrow." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  do  something  yet,"  sighed  Hippias, 
alluding  to  the  vast  literary  fame  he  had  aforetime  dreamed 
of.     "  I  hope  I  shall  have  a  good  night  to-night." 

"  Of  course  you  will !     What !  after  laughing  like  that  ?" 

"  Ugh  !  "  Hippias  grunted,  "  I  dare  say,  Richard,  you  sleep 
the  moment  you  get  into  bed  !  " 

"  The  instant  my  head's  on  my  pillow,  and  up  the  moment 
I  wake.     Health's  everything  !  " 

"  Health's  everything  !  "  echoed  Hippias,  from  an  immenso 
distance. 

"  And  if  you'll  put  yourself  in  my  hands,"  Richard  con- 
tinued, "3'ou  shall  do  just  as  I  do.  You  shall  be  well  and 
strong,  and  sing  '  Jolly ! '  like  Adrian's  blackbird.  You 
shall,  upon  my  honour,  uncle !  " 

He  specified  the  hours  of  devotion  to  his  uncle's  recovery 
— no  less  than  twelve  a  day — that  he  intended  to  expend, 
and  his  cheery  robustness  almost  won  his  uncle  to  leap  up 
recklessly  and  clutch  health  as  his  own. 

"  Llind,"  quoth  Hippias,  with  a  half-seduced  smile,  "  mind 
your  dishes  are  not  too  savoury !  " 

"  Light  food  and  claret!  Regular  meals  and  amuf.ement! 
Lend  your  heart  to  all,  but  give  it  to  none !  "  exclaims  young 
Wisdom,  and  Hippias  mutters,  "  Yes !  yes  !  "  and  intimates 
that  the  origin  of  his  malady  lay  in  his  not  following  that 
maxim  earlier, 

"  Love  ruins  us,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said,  thinking  to  preach 
B,ichard  a  lesson,  and  Richaid  boisterously  broke  out— - 

*  The  love  of  Monsieur  Francatclli, 
It  waa  the  ruin  of — et  ccetera." 

Hippias  blinked,  exclaiming,  "Really,  my  dear  boy!  I 
never  saw  you  so  excited." 

"  It's  the  railway  !     It's  the  fun,  ancle  !" 

**Ahl"  Hippias  wagged  a  melancholy  head,  "you've    got 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  209 

the  Golden  Bride!     Keep  her  if  you  can.     Thnt's  a  pretty 
fable  of  your  father's.     I  gave  him  the  idea,  though.     Austin 
tilches  a  great  many  of  my  ideas  !" 
"  Here's  the  idea  in  verse,  uncle— 

•  O  sunless  walkers  by  the  tide  ! 

O  have  you  seen  the  Golden  Bride  I 

They  say  that  she  is  fair  beyond 

All  women  ;  faithful,  and  more  fond  I' 

You  know,  the  young  inquirer  comes  to  a  group  of  penitent 
sinners  by  the  brink  of  a  stream.     They  howl,  and  answer : 

*  Faithful  she  is,  but  she  forsakes  : 
And  fond,  yet  endless  woe  she  makes  : 
And  fair  !  but  with  this  curse  she's  cross'd  ; 
To  know"  her  not  till  she  is  lost !' 

Then  the  doleful  party  march  off  in  single  file  solemnly,  and 

the  fabulist  pursues — 

*  She  hath  a  palace  in  the  West : 
Bright  Hesper  lights  her  to  her  rest : 
And  him  the  Morning  Star  awakes 
Whom  to  her  charmed  arms  she  takes. 

•  So  lives  he  till  he  sees,  alas  ! 
The  maids  of  baser  metal  pass.' 

And  prodigal  of  the  happiness  she  lends  him,  he  asks  to 
share  it  with  one  of  them.  There  is  the  Silver  Maid,  and 
the  Copper,  and  the  Brassy  Maid,  and  others  of  them.  First, 
you  know,  he  tries  Argentine,  and  finds  her  only  twenty  to 
the  pound,  and  has  a  worse  experience  with  Copperina,  till 
he  descends  to  the  scullery ;  and  the  lower  he  goes,  the  lesa 
obscure  become  the  features  of  his  Bride  of  Gold,  and  all 
her  radiance  shines  forth,  my  uncle  !" 

"  Verse  rather  blunts  the  point.  Well,  keep  to  her,  now 
you've  got  her,"  says  Hippias. 

"We  will,  uncle!  Look  how  the  farms  flypast!  Look 
at  the  cattle  in  the  fields !     And  how  the  lines  duck,  and 


Bwim  up 


«  She  claims  the  whole,  and  not  the  part— 
The  coin  of  an  unused  heart ! 
To  gain  his  Golden  Bride  again, 
He  hunts  with  melancholy  men,' 

— and  is  waked  no  longer  by  the  Morning  Star!'* 

P 


210  TIIK  ORDKAT,  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

"  Not  if  he  d(X>sn't  sloop  till  an  hour  before  it  rises !" 
Ilijn>ias  inliMJoottil.  "You  don't  rliyiuo  badly.  But  stick 
to  pi-ose.  I'uetry's  a  Buso-niotal  maid.  I'm  not  sure  that 
any  writint^'s  gt)od  for  the  dijT'ostion.  I'm  almost  afraid  it 
ha-s  spoilt  mine."     llip]>ias  did  look  doubtful. 

"  Foar  nothinc:,  uncle!"  laug-hed  llichurd.  "You  shall 
ride  in  the  jiark  with  me  evei*y  day  to  get  an  appetite.  You, 
and  I,  and  little  Carola — a  splendid  little  girl.  I  shall  call 
lior  my  CJolden  liride.  You  know  that  little  poem  of 
Saudoe's  ? 

'  She  rides  in  the  park  on  a  prancing  bay, 

She  and  her  squires  to<);ethcr  ; 
Her  dark  locks  <rleiiin  from  a  bonnet  of  graj, 
And  toss  with  the  tossing  feather. 

*  Too  calmly  prond  for  a  glance  of  pride 

Is  the  lieantiful  face  as  it  passes  ; 

The  cockneys  nod  to  each  other  aside, 

The  coxcombs  lift  their  glasses. 

•And  throng  to  her,  sigh  to  her,  yon  that  can  breach 
The  ice  wall  that  guards  her  securely  ; 
Tou  have  not  such  bliss,  though  she  smile  on  yon  each, 
As  the  heart  that  can  image  her  purely.' 

Wasn't  Sandoe  once  a  friend  of  my  father's  ?  I  suppose  they 
quarrelled.  He  understands  the  heart.  What  does  he  make 
his  '  Humble  Lover '  say  ? 

*  True,  Madam,  yon  may  think  to  part 
Conditions  by  a  glacier  ridge, 
But  Beauty's  for  the  largest  heart, 
And  all  abysses  Love  can  bridge  !*  " 

Hippias  now  laughed ;  gi'imly,  as  men  laugh  at  the  empti- 
ness of  words. 

^  "  Largest  heart  I  "  he  sneered.  "  What's  a  *  glacier-ridge  ? ' 
I've  never  seen  one.  I  can't  deny  it  rhymes  with  '  bridge.' 
But  don't  go  parading  your  admiration  of  that  person, 
Richard.  Your  father  will  speak  to  you  on  the  subiect  when 
he  thinks  fit." 

"I  thought  they  had  quarrelled,"  said  Richard.  "What 
a  pity  !  "  and  he  murmured  to  a  pleased  ear : 

"  Beauty's  for  the  largest  heart !  " 

The  flow  of   their   conversation    was    interrupted  by  the 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  211 

entrance  of  passengers  at  a  station.  Ricliard  examined  their 
faces  witli  pleasure.  All  faces  pleased  him.  Human  nature 
sat  tributary  at  the  feet  of  him  and  his  Golden  Bride.  As 
he  could  not  well  talk  his  thoughts  before  them,  he  looked 
out  at  the  windows,  and  enjoyed  the  changeing  landscape, 
projecting  all  sorts  of  delights  for  his  old  friend  Ripton,  and 
little  Carola,  and  musing  hazily  on  the  wondrous  things  he 
was  to  do  in  the  world ;  of  the  great  service  he  was  to  be  to 
his  fellow-creatui'es.  In  the  midst  of  his  reveries  he  was 
landed  in  London.  Tom  Bakewell  stood  at  the  carriage 
door.  A  glance  told  Richard  that  his  sfjuire  had  something 
curious  on  his  mind,  and  he  gave  Tom  the  word  to  speak  out. 
Tom  edged  his  master  out  of  hearing,  and  began  sputtering 
a  laugh. 

"  Dash'd  if  I  can  help  it,  sir!"  he  said.  "That  young 
Tom  !  He've  come  to  town  dressed  that  spicy  !  and  he  don't 
know  his  way  about  no  more  than  a  stag.  He's  come  to 
fetch  somebody  from  another  rail,  and  he  don't  know  how  to 
get  there,  and  he  ain't  sure  about  which  rail  'tis.  Look  at 
him,  Mr.  Richard  !     There  he  goes." 

Young  Tom  appeared  to  have  the  weight  of  all  London  on 
his  beaver. 

"  Who  has  he  come  for  ?  "  Richard  asked. 

"  Don't  you  know,  sir  ?  You  don't  like  me  to  mention  the 
name,"  mumbled  Tom  bursting  to  be  perfectly  intelligible. 

"  Is  it  for  her,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Miss  Lucy,  sir." 

Richard  turned  away,  and  was  seized  by  Hippias,  who 
begged  him  to  get  out  of  the  noise  and  pother,  and  caught 
hold  of  his  slack  arm  to  bear  him  into  a  conveyance ;  but 
Richard,  by  wheeling  half  to  the  right,  or  left,  .always  got 
his  face  round  to  the  point  where  young  Tom  was  manoeuvr- 
ing to  appear  at  his  ease.  Even  when  they  were  seated  in 
the  conveyance,  Hippias  could  not  persuade  him  to  drive  off. 
He  made  the  excuse  that  he  did  not  wish  to  start  till  there 
was  a  clear  road.  At  last  young  Tom  cast  anchor  by  n 
policeman,  and,  doubtless  at  the  official's  suggestion,  bash- 
fully took  seat  in  a  cab,  and  was  shot  into  the  whirlpool  of 
London.  Richard  then  angrily  asked  his  driver  what  he  was 
waiting  for. 

"Are  you  ill,  my  boy?"  said  Hippias.  "Where's  your 
colour." 

p2 


212  TITK  OrPKAT,  OF  TJirnAHP  FEVKREL. 

lie  liuiirlir'tl  odilly,  and  mado  a  random  answer  lliat  lie 
hoju'd  tlu'  fellow  would  drive  fast. 

"  1  liato  slow  motion  after  being  in  the  railway,"  he  said. 

lli{)I)ias  assured  him  there  was  somethine:  the  matter  with 
him. 

"  Nothing,  unele  !  nothing !  "  said  Richard,  looking  fiercely 
3andid. 

They  say,  that  when  the  skill  and  care  of  men  rescne  a 
drowned  WTetch  from  extinction,  and  warm  the  flickering 
spirit  into  steady  flame,  such  pain  it  is,  the  blood  forcing  its 
way  along  the  dry  channels,  and  the  heavily-ticking  nerves, 
and  the  sullen  heart  — the  struggle  of  life  and  death  in  him 
• — grim  death  relaxing  his  gripe  ;  such  pain  it  is,  he  cries  out 
no  thanks  to  them  that  pull  him  by  inches  from  the  depths 
of  the  dead  river.  And  he  who  has  thought  a  love  extinct, 
and  is  surprised  by  the  old  fires,  and  the  old  tyranny,  he 
rebels,  and  strives  to  fight  clear  of  the  cloud  of  forgotten 
sensations  that  settle  on  him ;  such  pain  it  is,  the  old  sweet 
music  reviving  through  his  frame,  and  the  charm  of  his  pas- 
sion fixing  him  afresh.  Still  was  fair  Lucy  the  one  woman 
to  Richard.  He  had  forbidden  her  name  but  from  an  instinct 
of  self-defence.  Must  the  maids  of  baser  metal  dominate  him 
anew,  it  is  in  Lucy's  shape.  Thinking  of  her  now  so  near 
him — his  darling  !  all  her  gi-aces,  her  sweetness,  her  truth  ; 
for,  despite  his  bitter  blame  of  her,  he  knew  her  true — swam 
in  a  thousand  visions  before  his  eyes ;  visions  pathetic,  and 
full  of  glory,  that  now  wrung  his  heart,  and  now  elated  it. 
As  well  might  a  ship  attempt  to  calm  the  sea,  as  this  young 
man  the  violent  emotion  that  began  to  rage  in  his  breast. 
"  I  shall  not  see  her !  "  he  said  to  himself  exultingly,  and  at 
the  same  instant  thought,  how  black  was  every  corner  of  the 
eai-th  but  that  one  spot  where  Lucy  stood  !  how  utterly  cheer- 
less the  place  he  was  going  to !  Then  he  determined  to  bear 
it ;  to  live  in  darkness ;  there  was  a  refuge  in  the  idea  of  a 
voluntary  martyi-dom.  "  For  if  I  chose  I  could  see  her — 
this  day  within  an  hour ! — I  could  see  her,  and  touch  her 
hand,  and,  oh,  heaven  ! — But  I  do  not  choose."  And  a  great 
wave  swelled  through  him,  and  was  crushed  down  only  to 
Bwell  again  more  stormily. 

Then  Tom  Bakewell's  words  recurred  to  him,  that  young 
Torn  Ijlaize  was  uncertain  where  to  go  for  her,  and  that  slie 
Oii^'Lt  be  thrown  on  this  Babylon  alone      And  flying  fron: 


THE  HERO  TAKES  A  STEP.  213 

point  to  point,  it  struck  him  that  they  had  knowB  at  Rayn- 
ham  of  her  return,  and  had  sent  hiin  to  town  to  be  out  of  the 
way — they  had  been  miserably  plotting  against  him  once 
more.  "  They  shall  see  what  right  they  have  to  fear  me. 
I'll  shame  them !  "  was  the  first  turn  taken  by  his  wrathful 
feelings,  as  he  resolved  to  go,  and  see  her  safe,  and  calmly 
return  to  his  uncle,  whom  he  sincerely  believed  not  to  be  one 
of  the  conspirators.  Nevertheless,  after  forming  that  resolve, 
he  sat  still,  as  if  there  were  something  fatal  in  the  wheels 
that  bore  him  away  from  it — perhaps  because  he  knew,  as 
Bome  do  when  passion  is  lord,  that  his  intelligence  juggled 
with  him  ;  though  none  the  less  keenly  did  he  feel  his  wrongs 
and  suspicions.  His  Golden  Bride  was  waning  fast.  But 
when  Hippias  ejaculated  to  cheer  him :  "  We  shall  soon  be 
there !  "  the  spell  broke.  Richard  stopped  the  cab,  saying 
he  wanted  to  speak  to  Tom,  and  would  ride  with  him  the 
rest  of  the  journey.  He  knew  well  enough  which  line  of 
railway  his  Lucy  must  come  by.  He  had  studied  every 
town  and  station  on  the  line.  Before  his  uncle  could  express 
more  than  a  mute  remonstrance,  he  jumped  out  and  hailed 
Tom  Bakewell,  who  came  behind  with  the  boxes  and  baggage 
in  a  companion  cab,  his  head  a  yard  beyond  the  window  to 
make  sure  of  his  ark  of  safety,  the  vehicle  preceding. 

"  What  an  extraordinary,  impetuous  boy  it  is,"  said 
Hippias.     *'  We're  in  the  very  street !  " 

Within  a  minute  the  stalwart  Berry,  despatched  by  the 
baronet  to  arrange  everything  for  their  comfort,  had  opened 
the  door,  and  made  his  bow. 

"  Mr,  Richard,  sir  ? — evaporated  ?  "  was  Berry's  modu- 
lated inquiry. 

"  Behind— among  the  boxes,  fool!"  Hippias  growled,  a3 
he  received  Berry's  muscular  assistance  to  alight.  "  Lunch 
ready — eh  !  " 

"  Luncheon  was  ordered  precise  at  two  o'clock,  sir — been 
in  attendance  one  quarter  of  an  hour.  Heah  !  "  Berry  sang 
out  to  the  second  cab,  which,  with  its  pyramid  of  luggage, 
remained  stationary  some  thirty  paces  distant.  At  his  voice 
the  majestic  pile  deliberately  turned  its  back  on  them,  and 
went  off  in  a  contrary  direction. 


214  TUE  OUDEAF,  OF  RICHARD  FICVEREL. 


CI  TATTER  XXVII. 

RECOKPS  THE  RATID  DEVELOTMENT  OF  THE  HEEO. 

On  the  stroke  of  the  hour  when  Ripton  Thompson  was 
accustomed  to  consult  his  gold  Avatch  for  practical  purposes, 
and  sniff  freedom  and  the  forthcoming  dinner,  a  burglarious 
foot  entered  the  clerk's  office  where  he  sat,  and  a  man  of  a 
scowling  countenance,  who  looked  a  villain,  and  whom  he 
was  afraid  he  knew,  slid  a  letter  into  his  hands,  nodding 
that  it  would  be  prudent  for  him  to  read,  and  be  silent. 
Rpiton  obe^'ed  in  alarm.  Apparently  the  contents  of  the 
letter  relieved  his  conscience;  for  he  reached  down  his  hat, 
and  told  Mr.  Bcazley  to  inform  his  father  that  he  had  busi- 
ness of  pressing  importance  in  the  West,  and  should  meet 
him  at  the  station.  ^Ir.  Beazley  zealously  waited  upon  the 
paternal  Thompson  without  delay,  and  together  making  their 
observations  from  the  window,  they  beheld  a  cab  of  many 
boxes,  into  which  Ripton  darted  and  was  followed  by  one  in 
groom's  dress.  It  was  Saturday,  the  day  when  Ripton  gave 
up  his  law-readings,  magnanimously  to  bestow  himself  upon 
his  family,  and  Mr.  Thompson  liked  to  have  his  son's  arm  as 
he  walked  down  to  the  station ;  but  that  third  glass  of  Port 
which  always  stood  for  his  second,  and  the  groom's  sugges- 
tion of  aristocratic  acquaintances,  prevented  Mr.  Thompson 
from  intei-fering :  so  Rij)ton  was  permitted  to  depart. 

In  the  cab  Ripton  made  a  study  of  the  letter  he  held.  It 
had  the  preciseness  of  an  imperial  mandate. 

"  Dear  Riptox, — You  are  to  get  lodgings  for  a  lady  imme- 
diately.    Not  a  word  to  a  soul.     Then  come  along  with  Tom. 

"R.  D.  F." 

"  Lodgings  for  a  lady  !  "  Ripton  meditated  aloud  :  "  What 
Bort  of  lodgings  ?  Where  am  I  to  get  lodgings  ?  Who's  the 
lady  f* — I  say !  "  he  addressed  the  mysterious  messenger. 
"  So  you're  Tom  Bakewell,  are  you,  Tom  ?  " 

Tom  grinned  his  identity. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  rick,  Tom  ?  Ha !  ha !  We  got 
out  of  that  neatly,  didn't  we,  Tom  ?  We  might  all  have  been 
truu.sported,   though.      I   could   have  convicted  you,   Tom! 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO.  215 

safe !  It's  no  use  coming  across  a  practiced  lawyer.  Now 
tell  me."  Ripton  having  floiTrished  his  powers,  commenced 
his  examination :  "  Who's  this  lady  ?  " 

"  Better  wait  till  you  see  Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  Tom  resumed 
his  scowl  to  reply. 

"  Ah !  "  Ripton  acquiesced.     "  Is  she  young,  Tom  ?  " 

Tom  said  she  was  not  old. 

"  Handsome,  Tom  ?  " 

*'  Some  might  think  one  thing,  some  another,"  Tom  said. 

"  And  where  does  she  come  from  now  ?  "  asked  Ripton, 
■with  the  friendly  cheerfulness  of  a  baffled  counsellor. 

"  Comes  from  the  country,  sir." 

"  A  friend  of  the  family,  I  suppose  ?  a  relation  ?  " 

Ripton  left  this  insinuating  query  to  be  answered  by  a 
look.     Tom's  face  was  a  dead  blank. 

"  Ah  !  "  Ripton  took  a  breath,  and  eyed  the  mask  opposite 
him.  "  Why,  you're  quite  a  scholar,  Tom  !  Mr.  Richard  is 
quite  well  ?  Father's  quite  well  ?  All  right  at  home  ? — eh, 
Tom  ?  " 

"  Come  to  town  this  mornin'  with  his  uncle,"  said  Tom. 
**  All  quite  well,  thank  ye,  sir." 

"  Ha !  "  cried  Ripton,  more  than  ever  puzzled,  "  now  I  see. 
You  all  came  to  town  to-day,  and  these  are  your  boxes  out- 
eide.  So,  so !  But  Mr.  Richard  writes  for  me  to  get  lodgings 
for  a  lady.  There  must  be  some  mistake — he  wrote  in  a 
hurry.     He  wants  lodgings  for  you  all — eh  ?  " 

"  'M  sure  I  d'n  know  what  he  wants,"  said  Tom.  "  You'd 
better  go  by  the  letter,  sir." 

Ripton  re-consulted  that  document.  " '  Lodgings  for  a  lady, 
and  then  come  along  with  Tom.  Not  a  word  to  a  soul.'  I 
say!  that  looks  like— but  he  never  cared  for  them.  You 
don't  mean  to  say,  Tom,  he's  been  running  away  with  any- 
body?" 

Tom  fell  back  upon  his  first  reply :  "  Better  wait  till  ye 
see  Mr.  Richard,  sir,"  and  Ripton  exclaimed :  "  Hanged  if 
you  ain't  the  tightest  witness  I  ever  saw  !  I  shouldn't  like 
to  have  you  in  a  box.  Some  of  you  country  fellows  beat  any 
number  of  cockneys.     You  do !  " 

Tom  received  the  compliment  stubbornly  on  his  guard,  and 
Ripton,  as  nothing  was  to  be  got  out  of  him,  set  about  con- 
sidering how  to  perform  his  friend's  injunctions ;  deciding 
firstly,  that  a  lady  fresh  from  the  countiy  ought  to  lodgo 


216  THE  ORDEAL  OF  IMCnARD  FEVERUU 

near  the  parks,  in  wliiVh  direction  he  told  the  cahnmn  to 
drive.  Thus,  unaware  of  his  hiy'h  destiny,  Ripton  joined 
the  hero,  and  aceciited  his  cliaracter  in  the  New  Comedy. 

It  is,  nevertheless,  true  that  certain  favoured  people  do 
linve  beneticent  omens  to  prejiare  them  for  their  parts  when 
the  hero  is  in  full  career,  so  that  they  really  may  be  nerved 
to  meet  him;  ay,  and  to  check  him  in  his  course,  had  they 
that  sig'nal  courage.  For  instance,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Berry,  a 
ripe  and  wholesome  landlady  of  advertized  lodg-ings,  on  the 
boi-ders  of  Kensington,  noted,  as  she  sat  rocking  her  contem 
plative  person  before  the  parlour  fire  this  very  March  after- 
noon, a  supernatural  tendency  in  that  fire  to  burn  all  on  otie 
side :  which  signifies  that  a  wedding  approaches  the  house. 
"Why — who  shall  say  ?  Omens  are  as  impassable  as  heroes. 
It  may  be  because  in  these  affairs  the  fire  is  thought  to  be 
all  on  one  side.  Enough  that  the  omen  exists,  and  spoke  its 
solemn  warning  to  the  devout  woman.  Mrs.  Berry,  in  her 
circle,  was  known  as  a  certificated  lecturer  against  the  snares 
of  matrimony.  Still  that  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
like  a  wedding.  Expectant,  therefore,  she  watched  the  one 
glowing  cheek  of  Hymen,  and  with  pleasing  tremours  beheld 
a  cab  of  many  boxes  di-aw  up  by  her  bit  of  garden,  and  a 
gentleman  emerge  from  it  in  the  act  of  consulting  an  adver- 
tizeraent  paper.  The  gentleman  required  lodgings  for  a  lady^ 
Lodgings  for  a  lady  Mrs.  Berry  could  produce,  and  a  very 
roseate  smile  for  a  gentleman ;  so  much  so  that  Ripton  forgot 
to  ask  about  the  terms,  which  made  the  landlady  in  Mrs. 
Berry  leap  up  to  embrace  him  as  the  happy  man.  But  her 
experienced  woman's  eye  checked  her  enthusiasm.  He  had 
not  the  air  of  a  bridegroom :  he  did  not  seem  to  have  a 
■weight  on  his  chest,  or  an  itch  to  twiddle  everything  with 
his  fingers.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  the  bridegroom  for 
whom  omens  fly  abroad.  Promising  to  have  all  ready  for 
the  lady  within  an  hour,  ^Irs.  Berry  fortified  him  with  her 
card,  curtsied  him  back  to  his  cab,  and  floated  him  off  on  her 
emiles. 

The  remarkable  vehicle  which  had  woven  this  thread  of 
intrigue  through  London  streets,  now  proceeded  sedately  to 
finish  its  operations.  Ripton  was  landed  at  an  hotel  in 
"Westminster.  Ere  he  was  halfway  up  the  stairs,  a  door 
0[iencd,  and  his  old  comrade  in  adventure  rushed  down. 
Kichaid  allowed  no  time  for  salutations.     "  Have  you  done 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OP  THE  HERO.  217 

it?"  -was  all  he  asked.  For  answer  Ripton  handed  him  Mrs. 
Berry's  card.  Richard  took  it,  and  Ici't  him  standing-  there. 
Five  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  Ripton  heard  the  gracious 
rustle  of  feminine  garments  above.  Richard  came  a  little 
in  advance,  leading  and  half-supporting  a  figure  in  a  black- 
silk  mantle  and  small  black  straw  bonnet;  young— that  was 
certain,  though  she  held  her  veil  so  close  he  could  hardly 
catch  the  outlines  of  her  face  ;  girlishly  slender,  and  sweet 
and  simple  in  appearance.  The  hush  that  came  with  her, 
and  her  soft  manner  of  moving,  stirred  the  silly  youth  to 
some  of  those  ardours  that  awake  the  Knight  of  Dames  in 
our  bosoms.  He  felt  that  he  would  have  given  considerable 
sums  for  her  to  lift  her  veil.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
trembling — perhaps  weeping.  It  was  the  master  of  her 
fate  she  clung  to.  They  passed  him  without  speaking.  As 
she  went  by,  her  head  passively  bent,  Ripton  had  a  glimpse 
of  noble  tresses  and  a  lovely  neck  ;  great  golden  curls  hung 
loosely  behind,  pouring  from  under  her  bonnet.  She  looked 
a  captive  borne  to  the  sacrifice.  What  Ripton,  after  a  sight 
of  those  curls,  would  have  given  for  her  just  to  lift  her  veil 
an  instant  and  strike  him  blind  with  beauty,  was,  fortunately 
for  his  exchequer,  never  demanded  of  him.  And  he  had 
absolutely  been  composing  speeches  as  he  came  along  in  the 
cab !  gallant  speeches  for  the  lady,  and  sly  congi-atulatory 
■^nes  for  his  friend,  to  be  delivered  as  occasion  should  serve, 
that  both  might  know  him  a  man  of  the  world,  and  be  at 
their  ease.  He  forgot  the  smirking  immoralities  he  had 
revelled  in.  This  was  clearly  serious,  Ripton  did  not  req  aire 
to  be  told  that  his  friend  was  in  love,  and  meant  that  life 
and  death  business  called  marriage,  pai-ents  and  guardians 
consenting  or  not. 

Presently  Richard  retui-ned  to  him,  and  said  hurriedly, 
"  I  want  you  now  to  go  to  my  uncle  at  our  hotel.  Keep  him 
quiet  till  I  come.  Say  I  had  to  see  you — say  anything.  I 
shall  be  there  by  the  dinner  hour.  Rip  !  I  must  talk  to 
you  alone  after  dinner." 

Rijjton  feebly  attempted  to  reply  that  he  was  due  at  homo. 
He  was  very  curious  to  hear  the  plot  of  the  New  Comedy ; 
and  besides,  there  was  Richard's  face  questioning  him  sternly 
and  conHdciitly  for  signs  of  unhesitating  ob(Mlionce.  He 
finished  his  grimaces  by  asking  the  name  and  direction  of 
the  hotel.  Richard  pressed  his  haiid.  It  is  much  to  obtain 
even  that  recognition  of  our  devotion  from  the  hero. 


218  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEKEL. 

Tom  Bakcwell  also  received  his  priming,  and,  to  jndge  by 
his  chuckles  and  grins,  rather  appeared  to  enjoy  the  work 
cut  out  for  him.  In  a  few  minutes  they  had  di-iven  to  their 
separate  destinations ;  llipton  was  left  to  the  unusual  exer- 
cise of  his  fancy.  Such  is  the  nature  of  youth  and  its  thirst 
for  romance,  that  only  to  act  as  a  subordinate  is  pleasant. 
When  one  unfurls  the  standard  of  defiance  to  parents  and 
guai-dians,  he  may  be  sure  of  raising  a  lawless  troop  of 
adolescent  ruffians,  born  rebels,  to  any  amount.  The  beard- 
less crew  know  that  they  have  not  a  chance  of  pay  ;  but  what 
of  that  when  the  rosy  prospect  of  thwarting  their  elders  is 
in  view  ?  Though  it  is  to  see  another  eat  the  Forbidden 
Fruit,  they  will  run  all  his  risks  with  him.  Gaily  Ripton 
took  rank  as  lieutenant  in  the  enterprise,  and  the  moment 
his  heart  had  sworn  the  oaths,  he  was  rewarded  by  an  ex- 
quisite sense  of  the  charms  of  existence.  London  streets 
wore  a  sly  laugh  to  him.  He  walked  with  a  dandified  heel. 
The  generous  youth  ogled  aristocratic  carnages,  and  glanced 
intimately  at  the  ladies,  overflowingly  happy.  The  crossing- 
sweepers  blessed  him.  He  hummed  lively  tunes,  he  turned 
over  old  jokes  in  his  mouth  unctuously,  he  hugged  himself,  he 
had  a  mind  to  dance  down  Piccadilly,  and  all  because  a  friend 
of  his  was  running  away  with  a  pretty  girl,  and  he  was  in  the 
secret. 

It  was  only  when  he  stood  on  the  doorstep  of  Richard's 
hotel,  that  his  jocund  mood  was  a  little  dashed  by  remember- 
ing that  he  had  then  to  commence  the  duties  of  his  office,  and 
must  fabricate  a  plausible  story  to  account  for  what  he  knew 
nothing  about — a  part  that  the  greatest  of  sages  would  find 
it  difficult  to  perform.  The  young,  however,  whom  sages 
well  may  envy,  seldom  fail  in  lifting  their  inventive  faculties 
to  the  level  of  their  spirits,  and  two  minutes  of  Hippias's 
angry  complaints  against  the  friend  he  serenely  inquired  for, 
g^ve  Ripton  his  cue. 

"We're  in  the  very  street — within  a  stone's-throw  of  the 
house,  and  he  jumps  like  a  harlequin  out  of  my  cab  into 
another ;  he  must  be  mad — that  boy's  got  madness  in  him ! 
— and  carries  off  all  the  boxes — my  dinner-pills,  too !  and 
keeps  away  the  whole  of  the  day,  though  he  promised  to  go 
to  the  doctor,  and  had  a  dozen  engagements  with  me,'*  said 
Hippias,  venting  an  enraged  snarl  to  sum  up  his  gi-ievances. 

Ripton  at  once  told  him  that  the  doctor  was  not  at  home. 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OP  THE  HEEO.  219 

**  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  he's  been  to  the  doctor  ?  " 
Hippias  cried  out. 

"  He  has  called  on  him  twice,  sir,"  said  Ripton  expres- 
sively. "  On  leaving  me  he  was  going  a  third  time.  1 
shouldn't  wonder  that's  what  detains  him — he's  so  deter- 
mined." 

By  fine  degrees,  beyond  the  reach  of  art,  Ripton  ventured 
to  grow  circumstantial,  saying  that  Richard's  case  was  urgent 
and  required  immediate  medical  advice  ;  and  that  both  he 
and  his  father  were  of  opinion  Richard  should  not  lose  an 
hour  in  obtaining  it. 

"  He's  dreadfully  alarmed  about  himself,"  said  Ripton,  and 
tapped  his  chest,  and  threw  up  his  lips  and  brows. 

Hippias  protested  he  had  never  heard  a  word  from  his 
nephew  of  any  physical  affliction. 

"  No,"  groaned  Ripton,  "  he  was  afraid  of  making  you 
anxious." 

Algernon  Feverel  and  Richard  came  in  while  he  was  ham- 
mering at  the  alphabet  to  recollect  the  first  letter  of  the 
doctor's  name.  They  had  met  in  the  hall  below,  and  were 
laughing  heartily  as  they  entered  the  room.  Ripton  jumped 
tip  to  get  the  initiative. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  doctor  ? "  he  asked,  significantly 
plucking  at  Richard's  fingers. 

Richard  was  all  abroad  at  the  question. 

"  Why,  the  doctor  you  were  going  to  for  the  third  time 
when  you  left  me,"  said  Rij^ton,  in  a  manner  not  to  be  mis- 
taken.    "  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

Richard  sought  in  turn  the  countenances  of  all  present,  and 
settled  upon  Ripton's  with  a  ludicrous  stare. 

Algernon  clapped  him  on  the  back.  "  What  the  deuce  do 
you  want  with  doctors,  boy  ?  " 

The  solid  thump  awakened  him  to  see  matters  as  they 
were.  "  Oh,  ay !  the  doctor  !  "  he  said,  smiling  frankly  at 
his  lieutenant.  "Why,  he  tells  me  he'd  back  me  to  do  JVlilo's 
trick  in  a  week  from  the  present  day. — Uncle,"  he  camo  for- 
ward to  Hippias,  "  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  running  olf  as 
I  did.  I  was  in  a  hurry.  I  left  something  at  the  railway. 
This  stupid  Rip  thinks  I  went  to  the  doctor  about  myself. 
The  fact  was,  I  wanted  to  fetch  the  doctor  to  see  yoii  hei-o 
—so  that  you  might  have  no  trouble,  you  know.  You  can't 
bear  the  sight  of  his  instruments  and  skeletons — I've  heard 


220  TlIK  ORliKAL  OF  HirilAnn  FKVRRRL. 

you  sny  so.  Yon  said  it  sot  all  your  marrow  in  revolt — 
*  frioil  yonr  marrow,'  I  think  wore  the  words,  and  made  you 
see  twenty  thousand  different  ways  of  slidinj^  down  to  the 
chambers  of  the  Grim  Kinof.     Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

Hippias  emphatically  did  not  remember,  and  he  did  not 
believe  the  story.  Irritation  at  the  mad  ravishment  of  his 
pill-box  rendered  bim  incredulous.  As  he  had  no  means  of 
confuting  his  nepbew,  all  he  could  do  safely  to  express  his 
disbelief  in  him,  was  to  utter  petulant  remarks  on  his  2)ower. 
lessness  to  appear  at  the  dinner-table  that  day :  upon  which 
— Berry  just  then  trumpeting  dinner — Algernon  seized  one 
arm  of  the  Dyspepsy,  and  Richard  another,  and  the  laughing 
couple  bore  him  into  the  room  where  dinner  was  laid,  Ripton 
sniggering  in  the  rear,  the  really  happy  man  of  the  party. 

They  had  fun  at  the  dinner-table.  Richard  would  have 
it;  and  his  gaiety,  his  by-play,  his  princely  superiority  to 
truth  and  heroic  promise  of  overriding  all  our  laws,  his 
handsome  face,  the  lord  and  possessor  of  beauty  that  he 
looked,  as  it  were  a  star  shining  on  his  forehead,  gained  the 
old  complete  mastery  over  Ripton,  who  had  been,  mentally 
at  least,  half  patronizing  him  till  then,  because  he  knew 
more  of  London  and  life,  and  was  aware  that  his  friend  now 
depended  upon  him  almost  entirely. 

After  a  second  circle  of  the  claret,  the  hero  caught  his 
lieutenant's  eye  across  the  table,  and  said  : 

"We  must  go  out  and  talk  over  that  law-business,  Rip, 
before  you  go.    Do  you  think  the  old  lady  has  any  chance  r* " 

"  Not  a  bit !  "  said  Ripton  authoritatively. 

"  But  it's  worth  fighting— eh.  Rip  ?  " 

**  Oh,  certainly  !  "  was  Ripton's  mature  opinion. 

Richard  observed  that  Ripton's  father  seemed  doubtful. 
Ripton  cited  his  father's  habitual  caution.  Richard  made  a 
playful  remark  on  the  necessity  of  sometimes  acting  in  oppo- 
sition to  fathers.     Ripton  agreed  to  it  — in  certain  cases. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  in  certain  cases,"  said  Richard. 

"  Pretty  legal  morality,  gentlemen ! "  Algernon  inter- 
jected ;  Hippias  adding  :  "  And  lay,  too  !  " 

The  pair  of  uncles  listened  further  to  the  fictitious 
dialogue,  well  kept  up  on  both  sides,  and  in  the  end  desired 
a  statement  of  the  old  lady's  garrulous  case  ;  Hippias  ofering 
t<j  decide  wliat  her  cliances  were  in  law,  and  AlgeruvjU  to 
give  a  common-sense  judgement. 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OP  THE  HEEO.  221 

"  Rip  will  tell  you,"  said  Richard,  deferentially  signalling 
the  lawyer.  "  I'm  a  bad  hand  at  these  matters.  Tell  them 
how  it  stands,  Rip." 

Ripton  disguised  his  excessive  uneasiness  under  endeavours 
to  right  his  position  on  his  chair,  and,  inwardly  praying 
speed  to  the  claret  jug  to  come  and  strengthen  his  wits, 
began  with  a  careless  aspect :  "  Oh,  nothing  !  She — very 
curious  old  character  !  She — a — wears  a  wig.  She — a — 
very  curious  old  character  indeed  !  She — a — quite  tlie  old 
style.  There's  no  doing  anything  with  her !  "  and  Ripton 
took  a  long  breath  to  relieve  himself  after  his  elaborate 
fiction. 

"  So  it  appears,"  Hippias  commented,  and  Algernon 
asked  :  "  Well  ?  and  about  her  wig  ?  Somebody  stole  it  ?  " 
while  Richard,  whose  features  were  grim  with  suppressed 
laughter,  bade  the  narrator  continue. 

Ripton  lunged  for  the  claret  jug.  He  had  got  an  old  lady 
like  an  oppressive  bundle  on  his  brain,  and  he  was  as  help- 
less as  she  was.  In  the  pangs  of  ineffectual  authorship  his 
ideas  shot  at  her  wig,  and  then  at  her  one  characteristic  of 
extreme  obstinacy,  and  tore  back  again  at  her  wig,  but  she 
would  not  be  animated.  The  obstinate  old  thing  would 
remain  a  bundle.  Law  studies  seemed  light  in  comparison 
with  this  tremendous  task  of  changeing  an  old  lady  from  a 
doll  to  a  htiman  creature.  He  flung  off  some  claret, 
perspired  freely,  and,  with  a  mental  tribute  to  the  cleverness 
of  those  author  fellows,  recommenced  :  "  Oh,  nothing  !  She 
— a — wore  a  wig  for  a  long  time.  She — Richard  knows  her 
better  than  I  do — an  old  lady  — somewhere  down  in  Suffolk. 
I  think  we  had  better  advise  her  not  to  proceed.  The 
expenses  of  litigation  are  enormous  !  She — I  think  we  had 
better  advise  her  to  stop  short,  and  not  make  any  scandal." 

"And  not  make  any  scandal!"  Algernon  took  him  up. 
*'  Come,  come !  there's  something  more  than  a  wig,  then  ?  " 

Ripton  was  commanded  to  proceed,  whether  she  did  or  no. 
The  luckless  fictionist  looked  straight  at  his  pitiless  leader, 
and  blurted  out  dubiously,  "  She — there's  a  daughter." 

"Born  with  effort !  "  ejaculated  Hippias.  "  Must  give  hor 
pause  after  that!  and  I'll  take  the  opportunity  to  stretch  my 
length  on  the  sofa.  Heigho  !  that's  true  what  Austin  says  : 
'The  general  prayer  should  be  for  a  full  stomach,  and  tlio 
individual  for  one  that  works  well;  for  on   that  basis   only 


THK  onnKAL  OF  nrnARP  fkvkrel. 

lire  we  a  match  for  temporal  matters,  and  able  to  con- 
tomplato  eternal.'  Sententious,  but  true.  I  gave  him  the 
idea,  though  1  Take  care  of  your  stomachs,  boys !  and  if 
ever  you  hear  of  a  monument  proposed  to  a  scientific  cook  or 
gastmnomic  doctor,  send  in  your  subscriptions.  Or  say  to 
him  while  he  lives.  Go  forth,  and  be  a  Knight!  Ha!  They 
have  a  good  ce)ok  at  this  house.  He  suits  me  better  than 
GUI'S  at  Raynham.  I  almost  wish  I  had  brought  my  manu- 
script to  town,  I  feel  so  much  better.  Aha !  I  didn't  expect 
to  digest  at  all  without  my  regular  incentive.  I  think  I 
shall  give  it  up. — What  do  you  say  to  the  theati'e  to-night, 
boys!" 

Hichard  shouted,  "  Bravo,  Tinele  !  " 

"  Let  ^Ir.  Thompson  finish  first,"  said  Algernon.  "  I  want 
to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  story.  The  old  girl  has  a  wig 
and  a  daughtei-.  I'll  swear  somebody  runs  away  with  one  of 
the  two  !     Fill  your  glass,  Mr.  Thompson,  and  forward  !  " 

"  So  somebody  does,"  Ripton  received  his  impetus.  "  And 
they're  found  in  town  together,"  he  made  a  fresh  jerk.  "  She 
— a — that  is,  the  old  lady — found  them  in  company." 

"  She  finds  him  with  her  wig  on  in  company !"  said  Alger- 
non.    "  Capital !     Here's  matter  for  the  lawyers  !" 

"  And  you  advise  her  not  to  proceed,  under  such  circum- 
stances of  aggravation  ?"  Hippias  observed,  humorously 
twinkling  stomachic  contentment. 

"It's  the  daughter,"  Ripton  sighed,  and  surrendering  to 
pressure,  hurried  on  recklessly,  "  A  runaway  match — beau- 
tiful girl ! — the  only  son  of  a  baronet — married  by  special 
license.  A — the  point  is,"  he  now  brightened  and  spoke  from 
bis  own  element,  "  the  point  is  whether  the  marriage  can  be 
annulled,  as  she's  of  the  Catholic  persuasion  and  he's  a 
Protestant,  and  they're  both,  married  under  age.  That's  the 
point.'' 

Having  come  to  the  point  he  breathed  extreme  relief,  and 
saw  things  more  distinctly  ;  not  a  little  amazed  at  his  leader's 
horrified  face. 

The  two  elders  were  making  various  absurd  inquiries,  when 
Richard  sent  his  chair  to  the  floor,  crying,  "  What  a  muddle 
you're  in,  Rip  !  You're  mixing  half-a-dozen  stories  together. 
The  old  lady  I  told  you  about  was  old  Dame  Bake  well,  and 
the  dispute  was  concemini^  a  neighbour  of  hers  who  en- 
croached on  her  garden,  and  I  said  I'd  pay  the  money  to  see 
her  rig-hted  !" 


EAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO.  223 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure  !"  said  Ripton  humbly,  "  I  was  thinking 
of  the  othei'.  Oh,  of  course  !  Yes — she — a — her  cab- 
bages"  

"Here,  come  along,"  Richard  beckoned  to  him  savagtly. 
"I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes,  uncle,"  he  nodded  coolly  to 
either. 

The  young  men  left  the  room,  and  put  on  their  hats.  In 
the  hall-passage  they  met  Berry,  dressed  to  return  to  Rayn^ 
ham.  Richard  dropped  a  heljjer  to  the  intelligence  into  his 
hand,  and  warned  him  not  to  gossip  much  of  London.  Berry 
bowed  perfect  discreetness. 

"  What  on  earth  induced  you  to  talk  about  Protestants  and 
Catholics  marrying,  Rip  ?"  said  Richard,  as  soon  as  they 
were  in  the  street. 

"  Why,"  Ripton  answered,  "  I  was  so  hard  pushed  for  it, 
'pon  my  honour,  I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  I  ain't  an 
author,  you  know;  I  can't  make  a  story.  I  was  trying  to 
invent  a  point,  you  know,  and  1  couldn't  think  of  any  other, 
and  I  thought  that  was  just  the  point  likely  to  make  a  jolly 
good  dispute.  Capital  dinners  they  give  at  those  crack 
hotels.  Why  did  you  throw  it  all  upon  me  ?  I  didn't  begin 
on  the  old  lady." 

The  hero  mused,  "It's  odd!  It's  impossible  you  could 
have  known!  I'll  tell  you  why.  Rip  !  I  wanted  to  try  you. 
You  fib  well  at  long  range,  but  you  don't  do  at  close  quarters 
and  single  combat.  You're  good  behind  walls,  but  notwoi'th 
a  shot  in  the  open.  I  just  see  what  you're  fit  for.  You're 
staunch — that  I  am  certain  of.  You  always  were.  Lead  the 
way  to  one  of  the  Parks — down  in  that  direction.  You  know  ? 
— where  she  is  1" 

Ripton  led  the  w^ay.  His  dinner  had  prepared  this  young 
Englishman  to  defy  the  whole  artillery  of  established  moi'als. 
With  the  muffled  roar  of  London  around  them,  alone  in  a 
dark  slope  of  green,  the  hero,  leaning  on  his  henchman,  ami 
speaking  in  a  harsh  clear  under-tone,  delivered  his  explana- 
tions. Doubtless  the  true  heroic  insignia  and  point  of  view 
will  be  discerned,  albeit  in  common  private's  uniform. 

"  They've  been  plotting  against  me  for  a  year,  Rip  !  When 
you  see  her,  you'll  know  what  it  was  to  have  such  a  creature 
taken  away  from  you.  It  nearly  killed  me.  Never  nnnd 
what  she  is.  She's  the  most  perfect  and  noble  creature  Cod 
ever  made  I     It's  not  only  her  beauty — 1  don't  care  so  much 


2?  1  THK  OnPKAf,  OF  RirnAHl)  FKVIOKRU 

almut  tliat ! — but  wlu-n  5-ou'vo  once  socmi  lior,  fiho  sooms  to 
•Iriiw  music  from  all  the  nerves  of  your  body  ;  but  she's  such 
an  ani^el.  I  worship  her.  And  her  mind's  like  her  face. 
•She's  pure  Cfold.     There,  you'll  see  her  to-ni>4ht. 

'*  Well,"  he  pursued,  after  inihiting  llipton  with  this  rap- 
turous prosjiect,  "  they  got  her  away,  and  1  recovered.  It 
was  Mister  Adrian's  work.  What's  my  father's  objection  to 
her  ?  Because  of  her  birth  ?  She's  educated  ;  liei"  manners 
are  beautiful — full  of  retinement — quick  and  soft !  Can  they 
show  me  one  of  their  ladies  like  her  ? — she's  the  dauti-hter 
of  a  naval  lieutenant!  Because  she's  a  Catholic?  What 
Las  religion  to  do  with" — he  pronounced  "Love!"  a  little 
modestlj- — as  it  were  a  blush  in  his  voice. 

"  Well,  when  I  recovered  I  thought  I  did  not  care  for  her. 
It  shows  how  we  know  ourselves  !  And  1  cared  for  nothing. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  no  blood.  I  tried  to  imitate  my  dear  Austin. 
I  wish  to  God  he  were  here.  I  love  Austin.  He  would 
understand  her.  He's  coming  back  this  year,  and  then — but 
it'll  be  too  late  then. — Well,  my  father's  always  scheming  to 
make  me  perfect — he  has  never  spoken  to  me  a  word  about 
her,  but  I  can  see  her  in  his  eyes — he  wanted  to  give  me  a 
change,  he  said,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  town  with  my  uncle 
Hi])py,  and  I  consented.  It  was  another  plot  to  get  me  out 
of  the  way !  As  I  live,  I  had  no  more  idea  of  meeting  her 
than  of  flying  to  heaven  !  " 

He  lifted  his  face.  "Look  at  those  old  elm  branches* 
How  they  seem  to  mix  among  the  stars  ! — glittei-ing  fruits  of 
Winter!" 

Ripton  tipped  his  comical  nose  upward,  and  was  in  duty 
bound  to  say,  Yes !  though  he  observed  no  connection 
betsveen  them  and  the  narrative. 

"  Well,"  the  hero  went  on,  "  I  came  to  town.  There  I 
heard  she  was  coming,  too — coming  home.  It  must  have 
been  fate,  Ripton!  Heaven  forgive  me!  I  was  angry  with 
her,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  her  once — only  once 
—and  reproach  her  for  being  false  —  for  she  never  wrote  to 
me.  And,  oh,  the  dear  angel !  what  she  must  have  suffered  I 
— I  gave  my  uncle  the  slip,  and  got  to  the  railway  she  was 
coming  by.  There  was  a  fellow  going  to  meet  her — a  farmer's 
Bon — and,  good  God  !  they  wei'e  going  to  try  and  make  her 
inarr\'  him  !  I  remembered  it  all  then.  A  sei-vant  of  tlie 
farm  had  told  me.     That  fellow  went  to  the  wrong  station, 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO.  225 

I  suppose,  for  we  saw  notliing  of  him.  There  she  was — not 
changed  a  bit! — looking  lovelier  than  ever  !  And  when  she 
saw  me,  I  knew  in  a  minute  that  she  must  love  me  till 
dr.  ith  ! — You  don't  know  what  it  is  yet.  Rip  ! — Will  you 
believe  it? — Though  I  was  as  sure  she  loved  me  and  had 
been  true  as  steel,  as  that  I  shall  see  her  to-night,  I  spoke 
bitterly  to  her.  And  she  bore  it  meekly — she  looked  like  a 
saint.  I  told  her  there  was  but  one  hope  of  life  for  me— she 
must  prove  she  was  true,  and  as  I  give  up  all,  so  must  she. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said.  The  thought  of  losing  her  made 
me  mad.  She  tried  to  plead  with  me  to  wait — it  was  for  my 
sake,  T  know.  I  pretended,  like  a  miserable  hypocrite,  that 
she  did  not  love  me  at  all.  I  think  I  said  shameful  things. 
Oh  what  noble  creatures  women  are !  She  hardly  had 
strength  to  move.  I  took  her  to  that  place  where  you  found 
us. — Rip  !  she  went  down  on  her  knees  to  me.  I  never 
dreamed  of  anything  in  life  so  lovely  as  she  looked  then. 
Her  eyes  were  thrown  up,  bright  with  a  crowd  of  tears — her 
dark  brows  bent  together,  like  Pain  and  Beauty  meeting  in 
one ;  and  her  glorious  golden  hair  swept  off  her  shoulders  as 
she  hung  forward  to  my  hands.  -  Could  I  lose  such  a  prize  ? 
—  If  anything  could  have  persuaded  me,  would  not  that  ? — 1 
thought  of  Dante's  Madonna—  Guide's  Magdalen.—  Is  there 
sin  in  it  ?  I  see  none !  And  if  there  is,  it's  all  mine !  I 
swear  she's  spotless  of  a  ttaought  of  sin.  I  see  her  very  soul! 
Cease  to  love  her  ?  Who  dares  ask  me  ?  Cease  to  love  her  ? 
Why  I  live  on  her! — To  see  her  little  chin  straining  up  from 
her  throat,  as  she  knelt  to  me  ! — there  was  one  curl  that  fell 
across  her  throat " 

Ripton  listened  for  more.  Richard  had  gone  off  in  a  muse 
at  the  picture. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Ripton,  "  and  how  about  that  young  farmer 
fellow  ?  " 

The  hero's  head  was  again  contemplating  the  starry 
branches.  His  lieutenant's  question  came  to  him  after  an 
interval. 

"  Young  Tom  ?  Why,  it's  young  Tom  Blaize — son  of  our 
old  enemy,  Rip !  I  like  the  old  man  now.  Oh  !  I  saw 
nothing  of  the  fellow." 

"  Lord  !  "  cried  Ripton,  "are  we  going  to  get  into  a  mesa 
with  Blaizes  again  ?     I  don't  like  that !  " 

His  commander  quiet]}-  passed  his  likes  or  dislikes. 

Q 


'2LC>  TllK  OUDKAL  OK  incilAKH  I'KVKUEL, 

"  IJut  when  lie  fjfoes  ki  f  lio  train,  and  finds  she's  not  tlicre  ?" 
Hipton  suLT.LTostrd. 

"  I've  |)ri)vided  fi)r  that.  The  fool  went  to  the  South-cast 
instead  of  the  South-west.  All  warmth,  all  sweetiios.s,  conies 
with  the  South-west!  —  I've  provided  for  that,  friend  Hip. 
Mv  trusty  Tom  awaits  him  there,  as  if  by  accident.  He  tells 
liini  he  has  not  seen  her,  and  advises  him  to  remain  in  town, 
anil  tjo  for  her  there  to-mori"ow,  and  the  day  following.  Tom 
has  money  for  the  work.  Young  Tom  ought  to  see  London, 
vou  know.  Rip  ! — like  you.  We  shall  gain  some  good  clear 
(lavs.  And  when  ohi  lilaize  hears  of  it — Avhat  then  ?  I  have 
her!  she's  mine  ! — Besides,  he  won't  hear  for  a  week.  This 
Tom  beats  tliat  Tom  in  cunning,  I'll  wager.  "  Ha !  ha  !  " 
the  hero  burst  out  at  a  recollection.  "What  do  you  think, 
Kij)  ?  My  father  has  some  sort  of  System  with  me,  it 
apjieaj-s,  and  when  I  came  to  town  the  time  before,  he  took 
me  to  some  people — the  Grandisons — and  what  do  you 
think  ?  one  of  the  daughters  is  a  little  girl — a  nice  little 
thing  enough — very  funny — and  he  wants  me  to  wait  for 
her  !  He  hasn't  said  so,  but  I  know  it.  I  know  what  he 
means.  Nobody  understands  him  but  me.  I  know  he  loves 
me,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  men — but  just  consider ! — a 
little  girl  who  just  comes  up  to  my  elbow.  Isn't  it  ridicu- 
lous ?     Did  you  ever  hear  such  nonsense  P  " 

liijiton  emphasized  his  opinion  that  it  ceitainly  was 
foolish. 

"  Xo,  no !  The  die's  cast !  "  said  Richard.  "  They've  been 
plotting  for  a  year  up  to  this  day,  and  this  is  what  comes  of 
it !  If  my  father  loves  me,  he  will  love  her.  And  if  he 
loves  me,  he'll  forgive  my  acting  against  his  wishes,  and  see 
it  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done.  Come  !  step  out !  what  a 
time  we've  been  !  "  and  away  he  went,  compelling  Ripton  to 
the  sort  of  strides  a  drummer-boy  has  to  take  beside  a 
column  of  grenadiers. 

Ript<m  began  to  wish  himself  in  love,  seeing  that  it 
endowed  a  man  with  wind  so  that  he  could  breathe  great 
nighs,  while  going  at  a  tremendous  pace,  and  experience  no 
sensation  of  fatigue.  The  hero  was  communing  Avith  the 
elements,  his  familiars,  and  allowed  him  to  pant  as  he 
pleased.  Some  keen-eyed  Kensington  urchins,  noticing  the 
discrepancy  between  the  pedestinan  powers  of  the  two,  aimed 
their  wit  at  Mr.  Thoiupson  junior's  expense.     The  pace,  and 


RAPID  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  HERO.  -i-.' 

nothing  but  the  pace,  inducerl  Ripton  to  proclaim  that  they 
had  gone  too  far,  when  they  discovei-ed  that  they  had  ovei'- 
shot  the  mark  by  half  a  mile.  In  the  street  over  which 
stood  love's  star,  the  hero  thundered  his  presence  at  a  door, 
and  evoked  a  flying  housemaid,  who  knew  not  Mrs.  Bei-ry. 
The  hero  attached  significance  to  the  fact  that  his  instincts 
should  have  betrayed  him,  for  he  could  have  swctrn  to  that 
house.     The  door  being  shut  he  stood  in  dead  silence. 

"  Haven't  you  got  her  card  ?  "  Ripton  inquired,  and  heai-d 
that  it  was  in  the  custody  of  the  cabman.  Neither  of  them 
could  positively  bring  to  mind  the  number  of  the  house. 

"You  ought  to  have  chalked  it,  like  that  fellow  in  the 
Forty  Thieves,"  Ripton  hazarded  a  pleasantry  which  met 
with  no  response. 

Betrayed  by  his  instincts,  the  magic  slaves  of  Love  !  The 
hero  heavily  descended  the  steps. 

Ripton   murmured  that  they  were    done   for.     His    com 
mander  turned  on  him,  and   said :  "  Take  all  the   houses  on 
the  opposite  side,  one  after  another.     I'll  take  these."     With 
a  wry  face  Ripton  crossed  the  road,   altogether  subdued  by 
Richard's  native  superiority  to  adverse  circumstances. 

Then  were  families  aroused.  Then  did  mortals  dimly 
guess  that  something  portentous  was  abroad.  Then  were 
labourers  all  day  in  the  vineyard,  harshly  wakened  from 
their  evening's  nap.  Hope  and  Fear  stalked  the  street, 
as  again  and  again  the  loud  companion  summonses 
resounded.  Finally  Ripton  sang  out  cheerfully.  He  had 
Mrs.  Berry  before  him,  profuse  of  mellow  curtsies. 

Richard  ran  to  her  and  caught  her  hands  :  "  She's  well  ? — 
upstairs  ?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  well  !  only  a  trifle  tired  with  her  journey,  and 
fluttering- like,"  Mrs.  Berry  replied  to  Ripton  alone.  1'ho 
lover  had  flown  aloft. 

The  wise  woman  sagely  ushered  Ripton  into  her  own 
private  parlour,  there  to  wait  till  he  was  wanted. 


oa 


l28  TiiK  oi:i>i;.\i,  ov  KiniAKD  fevekel. 

CIlAl'TKIl  XXVllI. 

CONTAINS  AN  INTKHCESSION   FOR  THE  HEROINE, 

•'  In  all  oases  where  two  have  joined  to  commit  an  offence, 
pnnish  one  of  the  two  lightly,"  is  the  dictum  of  The 
Pilui:im's  Scrip. 

It  is  possible  for  younc^  heads  to  conceive  proper  plans  of 
UL'ti(.)n,  and  occasionally,  by  sheer  force  of  will,  to  check  the 
wild  horses  that  are  ever  fretting;  to  gallop  off  with  them, 
But  when  they  have  given  the  reins  and  the  whip  to  another, 
what  are  they  to  do?  They  may  go  down  on  their  knees, 
and  beg  and  pray  the  furious  charioteer  to  stop,  or  moderate 
his  pace.  Alas  !  each  fresh  thing  they  do  redoubles  his 
ardour.  There  is  a  power  in  their  troubled  beauty  women 
h-arn  the  use  of,  and  what  wonder  ?  They  have  seen  it 
kindle  Ilium  to  flames  so  often  !  But  ere  they  grow  ma- 
tronly in  the  house  of  Menelaus,  they  weep,  and  implore,  and 
do  not,  in  truth,  know  how  terribly  two-edged  is  their  gift  of 
loveliness.  They  resign  themselves  to  an  incomprehensible 
frenzy ;  pleasant  to  them,  because  they  attribute  it  to  exces- 
sive love.  And  so  the  very  sensible  things  "vrhich  they  can 
and  do  say,  are  vain. 

I  reckon  it  absuixl  to  ask  them  to  be  quite  in  earnest.  Are 
not  those  their  own  horses  in  yonder  team  ?  Certainly,  if 
they  were  quite  in  earnest,  they  might  soon  have  my  gentle- 
man as  sober  as  a  carter.  A  hundred  different  ways  of  dis- 
enchanting him  exi.st,  and  Adrian  will  point  you  out  one 
or  two  that  shall  be  instantly  efficacious.  For  Love,  the 
charioteer,  is  easily  tripped,  while  honest  jog-trot  Love  keeps 
his  legs  to  the  end.  Granted  dear  women  are  not  quite  in 
earnest,  still  the  mere  words  they  utter  should  be  put  to 
their  good  account.  They  do  mean  them,  though  their 
hearts  are  set  the  wrong  way.  'Tis  a  despairing,  pathetic 
homage  to  the  judgement  of  the  majority,  in  whose  faces 
they  are  flying.  Punish  Helen,  very  young,  lightly.  After 
a  certain  age  you  may  select  her  for  special  chastisement. 
An  innocent  with  Theseus,  with  Paris  she  is  an  advanced 
incendiary. 

The  fair  young  girl  was  sitting  as  her  lover  had  left  her ; 


INTEKCESSION  FOR  THE  HEROINE.  229 

trying  to  recall  her  stunned  senses.  Her  bonnet  was  un- 
reraoved,  her  Lands  clasped  on  her  knees  ;  dry  tears  in  her 
eyes.  Like  a  dutiful  slave,  she  rose  to  him.  And  first  he 
claimed  her  mouth.  There  was  a  speech,  made  up  of  all  the 
pretty  wisdom  her  wild  situation  and  true  love  could  gather, 
awaiting  him  there ;  but  his  kiss  scattered  it  to  fi-agments. 
She  di'opped  to  her  seat  weeping,  and  hiding  her  shamed 
cheeks. 

By  his  silence  she  divined  his  thoughts,  and  took  his  hand 
and  drew  it  to  her  lips. 

He  bent  beside  her,  bidding  her  look  at  him. 

"  Keep  your  eyes  so." 

She  could  not. 

"  Do  you  fear  me,  Lucy  ?  " 

A  throbbing  pressure  answered  him. 

"  Do  you  love  me,  darling  ?  " 

She  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Then  why  do  you  turn  from  mo  ?  " 

She  wept :  "  0  Richard,  take  me  home !  take  me  home!  " 

"  Look  at  me,  Lucy  !  " 

Her  head  shrank  timidly  round. 

"  Keep  your  eyes  on  me,  darling  !     Now  speak  !  " 

But  she  could  not  look  and  speak  too.  The  lover  knew  his 
mastery  when  he  had  her  eyes. 

"  You  wish  me  to  take  you  home  ?  " 

She  faltered :  "  0  Richard  ?  it  is  not  too  late." 

"  You  regret  what  you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

"  Dearest !  it  is  ruin." 

"  You  weep  because  you  have  consented  to  be  mine  ?  ** 

"  Not  for  me  !     O  Richard  !  " 

"  For  me  you  weep  ?     Look  at  me !     For  me  ?  " 

"  How  will  it  end  !     O  Richard  !  " 

"  You  weep  for  me  ?  " 

"  Dearest !     I  would  die  for  you !  " 

"  Would  you  see  me  indifferent  to  everything  in  the 
world  ?  Would  you  have  me  lost  ?  Do  you  think  I  will 
live  another  day  in  England  without  you  ?  I  have  staked 
all  I  have  on  you,  Lucy.  You  have  nearly  killed  me  once. 
A  second  time,  and  the  earth  will  not  be  troubled  by  me. 
You  ask  me  to  wait,  when  they  are  plotting  against  us  on  all 
sides  ?  Darling  Lucy !  look  on  me.  Fix  your  fond  eyes  on 
me.     You  ask  me  to  wait  when  here  you  are  given  to  me— 


2."!0  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICHARD  FEVKHEL. 

when  yon  Imvo  proved  my  faitli — when  we  know  wc  love  as 
none  Imve  K)veil.  Glive  mo  your  eyes!  Lot  tlieni  tell  luo  I 
have  your  lioart  !  " 

Where  was  her  wise  little  speeeh  ?  How  could,  she  match 
Buch  mitrhty  eloquence  ?  She  sought  to  collect  a  few  more 
of  the  scattered  frajrments. 

"  Dearest !  your  father  may  be  brought  to  consent  by  and 
by,  and  then — Oh  !  if  you  take  me  homo  now  " 

The  lover  stood  up  1  "  He  who  has  been  arrangeing  that 
fine  scheme  to  disgrace  and  martyrize  you  ?  True,  as  I  live ! 
that's  the  reason  of  their  having  you  back.  Your  old  servant 
heard  him  and  your  uncle  discussing  it.  He ! — Lucy !  he's 
a  good  man,  but  he  must  not  step  in  between  you  and  me 
I  say  God  has  given  you  to  me." 

He  was  down  by  her  side  again,  his  arms  enfolding  her. 

She  had  hoped  to  fight  a  better  battle  than  in  the  morning 
and  she  was  Aveaker  and  softer. 

Ah  !  why  should  she  doubt  that  his  great  love  was  the  first 
law  to  her?  Why  should  she  not  believe  that  she  would 
wreck  him  by  resisting  ?  And  if  she  suffered,  oh  sweet  to 
think  it  was  for  his  sake  !  Sweet  to  shut  out  wisdom  ;  accept 
total  blindness,  and  be  led  by  him  ! 

The  hag  W'isdom  annoyed  them  little  further.  She  rustled 
her  garments  ominously,  and  vanished. 

"  Oh,  my  own  Richard  !"  the  fair  girl  just  breathed. 

He  whispered,  "  Call  me  that  name." 

She  blushed  deeply. 

"  Call  me  that  name,"  he  repeated.  "  Tou  said  it  once  to- 
day." 

"  Dearest !" 

"  Not  that." 

"  O  darling !" 

"  Not  that." 

"  Husband !" 

She  was  won.  The  rosy  gate  from  which  the  word  had 
issued  was  closed  with  a  seal. 

Ripton  did  not  enjoy  his  introdiaction  to  the  caged  bird  of 
beauty  that  night.  He  received  a  lesson  in  the  ai-t  of  pump- 
ing from  the  worthy  landlady  below,  up  to  an  hour  when  she 
yawned,  and  he  blinked,  and  their  common  candle  wore  with 
diffnity  the  brigand's  hat  of  midnight,  and  cocked  a  drunken 
eye  at  them  from  under  it. 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  231 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

RELATES   HOW   PREPARATIONS    FOR   ACTION   WERE   CONDUCTED 
UNDER   THE    APRIL    OF    LOVERS. 

Beauty,  of  course,  is  for  the  liero.  Nevertheless,  it  is  not 
always  he  on  whom  beauty  works  its  most  conquering  in- 
fluence. It  is  the  dull  commonplace  man  into  whose  slow 
brain  she  drops  like  a  celestial  light,  and  burns  lastingly. 
The  poet,  for  instance,  is  a  connoisseur  of  beauty  :  to  the  artist 
she  is  a  model.  These  gentlemen  by  much  contemplation  of 
her  charms  wax  critical.  The  days  when  they  had  hearts 
being  gone,  they  are  haply  divided  between  the  blonde  and 
the  brunette ;  the  aquiline  nose  and  the  Proserpine ;  this 
shaped  eye  and  that.  But  go  about  among  simple  unpro- 
fessional fellows,  boors,  dunderheads,  and  here  and  there  you 
shall  find  some  bai'barous  intelligence  which  has  had  just 
strength  enough  to  conceive,  and  has  taken  Beauty  as  its 
Goddess,  and  knows  but  one  form  to  worship,  in  its  poor 
stupid  fashion,  and  would  perish  for  her.  Nay,  more  :  the 
man  would  devote  all  his  days  to  her,  though  he  is  dumb  as 
a  dog.  And,  indeed,  he  is  Beauty's  Dog.  Almost  every 
Beauty  has  her  Dog.  The  hero  possesses  her  ;  the  poet  pro- 
claims her ;  the  painter  puts  her  upon  canvas ;  and  the 
faithful  old  Dog  follows  her :  and  the  end  of  it  is  that  the 
faithful  old  Dog  is  her  single  attendant.  Sir  Hero  is  revel- 
ling in  the  wars,  or  in  Armida's  bowers  ;  Mr.  Poet  has  spied 
a  wrinkle  ;  the  brush  is  for  the  rose  in  its  season.  She  turns 
to  her  old  Dog  then.  She  hugs  him  ;  and  he,  who  has  sub- 
sisted on  a  bone  and  a  pat  till  there  he  squats  decrepid,  he 
turns  his  grateful  old  eyes  up  to  her,  and  has  not  a  notion 
Ihat  she  is  hugging  sad  memories  in  him :  Hero,  Poet, 
Painter,  in  one  scrubby  one  !  Then  is  she  buried,  and  the 
village  hears  languid  howls,  and  there  is  a  paragraph  in  the 
newspapers  concerning  the  extraordinary  fidelity  of  an  Old 
Dog. 

Excited  by  suggestive  recollections  of  Nooredeen  and  the 
Fair  Persian,  and  the  change  in  the  obscure  monotony  of 
his  life  by  his  having  quarters  in  a  crack  hotel,  and  living 
familiarly  with  West-End  j)co])1g — living  on  tlie  fat  of  the 
land  (winch  forms  a  stout  portion  of  an  honest  youth's 
romance),  Ripton  Thompson  breakfasted  next  morning  with 


232  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICHARD  FEVEREL. 

his  chief  at  half-jiast  cif::ht.  The  meal  had  been  fixed  over- 
iiii^ht  for  seven,  but  Kijiton  slept  a  great  deal  more  than  tho 
niirhtinirale,  and  (to  chronicle  his  exact  state)  even  half-]»ast 
eii;ht  rather  afllicted  his  new  aristocratic  senses,  and  reminded 
him  too  keenly  of  law  and  bondag'e.  He  had  preferred  to 
breakfast  at  Algernon's  hour,  who  had  left  word  for  eleven. 
Him,  however,  it  was  Richard's  object  to  avoid,  so  thej  fell 
to,  and  Kipton  no  longer  envied  Hippias  in  bed.  Breakfast 
done,  they  bequeathed  the  consoling  information  for  Alger- 
non that  they  ■were  off  to  hear  a  popular  preacher,  and 
departed. 

"  Huw  happy  everybody  looks ! "  said  Richard,  in  the 
quiet  Sunday  streets. 

"  Yes  —jolly  !  "  said  Ripton. 

"When  I'm — when  this  is  over,  I'll  see  that  they  are, 
too — as  many  as  I  can  make  hay)py,"  said  the  hero:  adding 
softly :  "  Her  blind  was  down  at  a  quarter  to  six.  I  think 
she  slept  well !  " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  there  this  morning  ?" 
Ripton  exclaimed.  "Really?"  and  an  idea  of  what  love 
was  dawned  upon  his  dull  brain. 

"  Will  she  see  me,  Ricky  ?  " 

"  Yes.     She'll  see  you  to-day.     She  was  tired  last  night." 

"Positively?" 

Richard  assured  him  that  the  privilege  would  be  his. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  coming  under  some  trees  in  the  park, 
"  here's  where  I  talked  to  you  last  night.  What  a  time  it 
seems  !     How  I  hate  the  night !  " 

"  You'll  " Ripton  darkly  winked  ;  but  his  chief  looked 

uninstructed,  and  he  bi-anched  into  the  converse  of  day- 
light. 

On  the  way,  that  Richard  might  have  an  exalted  opinion 
of  Lim,  he  hinted  decorously  at  a  somewhat  intimate  and 
mysteiious  acquaintance  with  the  sex.  Ripton  Thompson 
had  seen  pretty  girls,  and  pretty  girls  had  seen  Ripton 
Thompson.  Ahem ! — Headings  of  certain  random  adven- 
tures he  gave. 

"  Well !  "  said  his  cliief,  "  why  don't  you  marry  her  ?  " 

Then  was  Ripton  shocked,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  dear ! "  and 
had  a  taste  of  the  feeling  of  superiority,  destined  that  day 
to  be  crushed  utterly. 

He  was  again  deposit<;d  in  jMrs.  Berry's  charge  for  a  term 


PKBPAKATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  233 

that  caused  him  dismal  fears  that  the  Fair  Persian  still 
refused  to  show  her  face,  but  Richard  called  out  to  him, 
and  up  Eipton  went,  unaware  of  the  transformation  he  was 
to  undergo.  Hero  and  Beauty  stood  together  to  receive  him. 
From  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he  had  his  vivaciously  agree- 
able smile  ready  for  them,  and  by  the  time  he  entered  the 
room  his  cheeks  were  painfully  stiff,  and  his  eyes  strained 
beyond  their  exact  meaning.  Lucy,  with  one  hand  anchored 
to  her  lover,  welcomed  him  kindly.  He  relieved  her  shy- 
ness by  looking  so  extremely  silly.  They  sat  down,  and 
tried  to  commence  a  conversation,  but  Ripton  was  as  little 
master  of  his  tongue  as  he  was  of  his  eyes.  After  an  inter- 
val, the  Fair  Persian  having  done  duty  by  showing  herself, 
was  glad  to  quit  the  room.  Her  lord  and  possessor  then 
turned  inquiringly  to  Ripton. 

"  You  don't  wonder  now.  Rip  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  Richard ! "  Ripton  waited  to  reply  with  sufficient 
solemnity,  "  indeed  I  don't!  " 

He  spoke  differently ;  he  looked  differently.  He  had  the 
Old  Dog's  eyes  in  his  head.  They  watched  the  door  she  had 
passed  through ;  they  listened  for  her,  as  dogs'  eyes  do. 
When  she  came  in,  bonneted  for  a  walk,  his  agitation  was 
dog-like.  "When  she  hung  on  her  lover  timidly,  and  went 
forth,  he  followed  without  an  idea  of  envy,  or  anything  save 
the  secret  raptures  the  sight  of  her  gave  him,  which  are  the 
Old  Dog's  own.  For  beneficent  Nature  requites  him.  His 
sensations  cannot  be  heroic,  but  they  have  a  fulness,  and  a 
wagging  delight,  as  good  in  their  way.  And  this  capacity 
for  humble  unaspiring  worship  has  its  peculiar  guerdon. 
When  Ripton  comes  to  think  of  Miss  Random  now,  what 
will  he  think  of  himself  ?  Let  no  one  despise  the  Old  Dog. 
Through  him  doth  Beauty  vindicate  her  sex. 

It  did  not  please  Ripton  that  others  should  have  the  \)Hsa 
of  beholding  her,  and  as,  to  his  perceptions,  everybody  did, 
and  observed  her  offensively,  and  stared,  and  turned  their 
heads  back,  and  interchanged  comments  on  her,  and  became 
in  a  minute  madly  in  love  with  her,  ho  had  to  smother  low 
growls.  They  strolled  about  the  pleasant  gardens  of  Ken- 
sington all  the  morning,  under  the  young  chestnut  buds,  and 
round  the  windless  waters,  talking,  and  soothing  the 
wild  excitement  of  their  hearts.  If  Lucy  8])oke,  Ripton 
pricked  up  his  ears.     She,  too,  made  the  remark  that  eveiy- 


*J.")4  TiiK  oi:i>i;.M,  OK  niriuRD  feverel. 

hmly  scH'inod  to  look  haj>pv,  niul  he  heard  it  with  thrills  of 
jov.  "  ."^o  everyboily  is,  where  you  are  !  "  he  would  have 
wished  to  say,  if  he  dai-ed,  but  was  restrained  by  fears  that 
his  burning  eloquence  would  commit  him.  Ripton  kneiv  (ho 
people  he  met  twice.  It  would  have  been  diflicult  to  per- 
suade him  they  were  the  creatures  of  accident. 

From  the  Gardens,  in  contempt  of  Ripton's  frowned  pro- 
test, Richard  boldly  struck  into  the  Park,  where  solitary 
cai"ria<res  were  beginning  to  perform  the  circuit.  Here 
Ripton  had  some  justification  for  his  jealous  pangs.  The 
young  girl's  golden  locks  of  hair ;  her  sweet,  now  dreamily 
sad,  face ;  her  gentle  graceful  figure  in  the  black  straight 
dress  she  wore ;  a  sort  of  half-conventual  air  she  had — a 
mark  of  something  not  of  class,  that  was  partly  beauty's, 
jKirtly  maiden  innocence  growing  conscious,  pai'tly  remorse 
at  her  weakness  and  dim  fear  of  the  future  it  was  sowing — 
did  attract  the  eye-glasses.  Ripton  had  to  learn  that  eyes 
are  bearable,  but  eye-glasses  an  abomination.  They  fixed  a 
spell  upon  his  courage ;  for  somehow  the  youth  had  always 
i-anked  them  as  emblems  of  otu*  nobility,  and  hearing  two 
exquisite  eye-glasses,  who  had  been  to  front  and  rear  several 
times,  drawl  in  gibberish  generally  imputed  to  lords,  that 
his  heroine  was  a  charming  little  creature,  just  the  size,  but 
had  no  style, — he  was  abashed ;  he  did  not  fly  at  them  and 
tear  them.  He  became  dejected.  Beauty's  dog  is  afi^ected 
by  the  eye-glass  in  a  manner  not  unlike  the  common  animal's 
terror  of  the  human  eye. 

Richard  appeared  to  hear  nothing,  or  it  was  homage  that 
he  heard.     He  repeated  to  Lucy  Diaper  Sandoe's  verses  — 

"  The  cockneys  nod  to  each  other  aside, 
The  coxcombs  lift  their  glasses," 

and  projected  hiring  a  horse  for  her  to  ride  every  day  in  the 
park,  and  shine  among  the  highest. 

They  had  turned  to  the  West,  against  the  sky  glittering 
through  the  bare  trees  across  the  water,  and  the  bright- 
edged  rack.  The  lover,  his  imagination  just  then  occupied 
in  clothing  earthly  glories  in  cele.stial,  felt  where  his  serse-s 
were  sharpest  the  hand  of  his  darling  falter,  and  instinctively 
lofiked  ahead.  His  uncle  Algernon  was  leisurely  jolting 
towards  them  on  his  one  sound  leg.  The  dismembered 
uuardsman  talked  to  a  friend  whose  anu  supported  him, 


PEEPARATIONS  FOB  ACTION.  235 

and  speculated  from  time  to  time  on  the  fair  ladies  driving 
by.  The  two  white  faces  passed  him  unobserved.  Unfor- 
tunately Ripton,  coming  behind,  went  plump  upon  the 
Captain's  live  toe — or  so  he  pretended — crying,  "  Confound 
it,  Mr.  Thompson  !  you  might  have  chosen  the  other." 

The  hon-ible  apparition  did  confound  Ripton,  who  stam- 
mered that  it  was  exti^aordinary. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Algernon.  "  Everybody  makes  up  to 
that  fellow.     Instinct,  I  suppose  !  " 

He  had  not  to  ask  for  his  nephew.  Richard  turned  to 
face  the  matter. 

"  Sorry  I  couldn't  wait  for  you  this  morning,  uncle,"  he 
said,  with  the  coolness  of  relationship.  "  I  thought  you 
never  walked  so  far." 

His  voice  was  in  perfect  tone — the  heroic  mask  admirable. 

Algernon  examined  the  downcast  visage  at  his  side,  and 
contrived  to  allude  to  the  popular  preacher.  He  was 
instantly  introduced  to  Ripton's  sister.  Miss  Thompson. 

The  Captain  bowed,  smiling  melancholy  approval  of  his 
nephew's  choice  of  a  minister.  After  a  few  stray  remarks, 
and  an  affable  salute  to  Miss  Thompson,  he  hobbled  away, 
and  then  the  three  sealed  volcanoes  breathed,  and  Lucy's 
arm  ceased  to  be  squeezed  quite  so  much  up  to  the  heroic 
pitch. 

This  incident  quickened  their  steps  homeward  to  the 
sheltering  wings  of  Mrs.  Berry.  All  that  passed  between 
them  on  the  subject  comprised  a  stammered  excuse  from 
Ripton  for  his  conduct,  and  a  good-humoured  rejoinder  from 
Richard,  that  he  had  gained  a  sister  by  it :  at  which  Ripton 
ventured  to  wish  aloud  Miss  Desborough  would  only  think 
so,  and  a  faint  smile  twitched  poor  Lucy's  lips  to  please  him. 
She  hai'dly  had  strength  to  reach  her  cage.  She  had  none 
to  eat  of  Mr.s.  Bci-ry's  nice  little  dinner.  To  be  alone,  tliat 
she  might  cj-y  and  ease  her  heart  of  its  accusing  weight  of 
tears,  was  all  she  prayed  for.  Kind  Mrs.  Bciry,  sli])ping 
into  her  bedroom  to  take  oft"  her  things,  found  the  fair  body 
in  a  fevered  shudder,  and  finished  by  undressing  her  com- 
pletely and  putting  her  to  bed. 

"  Just  an  hour's  sleep,  or  so,"  the  mclliflnous  woman  ex- 
plained the  case  to  the  two  anxious  gentlemen.  "  A  quiei 
sleep  and  a  cup  of  warm  tea  goes  for  more  than  twenty 
doctora,  it  do — when  there's  the  flutters,"  she  pursued.     '*  I 


236  THE  OKDEAL  OF  IMCIIAKl)  FKVEREL. 

know  it  bv  myself.    AtkI  a  pi'Odil  cry  boforehand's  better  tban 
tlio  lu'st  of  iiuMliciiio." 

Sho  nnrsotl  them  into  amako-belicve  of  eating,  and  retired 
to  her  softer  charjjfo  and  sweeter  babe,  reflecting,  "  Lord ! 
Lord  !  the  three  of  'em  don't  make  fifty  !  I'm  as  old  as  two 
and  a  half  of  'em,  to  say  the  least."  Mrs.  Berry  used  ber 
npron,  and  by  virtue  of  their  tender  years  took  them  all  tbree 
into  her  heart. 

Left  alone,  neither  of  the  young  men  could  swallow  a 
morsel. 

"  Did  you  see  the  cbango  come  over  ber  ? "  Richard 
whispered. 

liipton  fiercely  accused  bis  prodigious  stupidity. 

The  lover  iiung  down  bis  knife  and  fork  :  "  Wbat  could 
I  do  ?  If  I  bad  said  nothing,  we  should  have  been  suspected. 
I  was  obliged  to  speak.  Aud  she  hates  a  lie!  See!  it  has 
struck  her  down.     God  forgive  me  !  " 

Ripton  affected  a  serene  mind:  "  It  was  a  fright,  Richard," 
he  said.  "  That's  what  Mrs,  Berry  means  by  fiutters. 
Those  old  women  talk  in  that  way.  You  heard  what  she 
said.  And  these  old  women  know.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is. 
It's  this,  Richard ! — it's  because  you've  got  a  fool  for  your 
friend ! " 

"  She  regrets  it,"  muttered  the  lover.  "  Good  God  !  I 
think  she  feai-s  me."     He  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Ripton  went  to  the  window,  repeating  energetically  for  his 
comfort:  "  It's  because  you've  got  a  fool  for  your  friend  !  " 

Sombre  grew  the  street  they  had  last  night  aroused.  The 
Bun  was  buried  alive  in  cloud.  Ripton  saw  himself  no  more 
in  the  opposite  window.  He  watched  the  deplorable  objects 
passing  on  the  pavement.  His  aristocratic  visions  had  gone 
like  his  breakfast.  Beauty  had  been  struck  down  by  his 
egregious  folly,  and  there  he  stood — a  wretch  ! 

Richard  came  to  him  :  "  Don't  mumble  on  like  that,  Rip  !" 
lie  said.     "  Nobody  blames  you." 

"  Ah  !  you're  very  kind,  Richard,"  interposed  the  wretch, 
moved  at  the  face  of  misery  he  beheld. 

"  Listen  to  me.  Rip !  I  shall  take  her  home  to-night. 
Yes  !     If  she's  happier  away  from  me! — do  you  think  me  a 

brute,  Riitton  Y     Rather  than  have  her  shed  a  tear,  I'd  ! ■ 

I'll  take  her  home  to-ni;rht !  " 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  237 

Ripton  suggested  that  it  was  sudden ;  adding  from  his 
larger  experience,  people  pei-haps  might  talk. 

The  lover  could  not  understand  what  they  should  talk 
about,  but  he  said  :  "  If  I  give  him  who  came  for  her  yester- 
day the  clue  ?  If  no  one  sees  or  hears  of  me,  what  can  they 
say  ?  O  Rip  !  I'll  give  her  up.  I'm  wrecked  for  ever  !  what 
of  that  ?  Yes — let  them  take  her !  The  world  in  armfi 
should  never  have  torn  her  from  me,  but  when  she  cries — 
Yes  !  all's  over.     I'll  find  him  at  once." 

He  searched  in  out-of-the-way  corners  for  the  hat  of 
resolve.     Ripton  looked  on,  wretcheder  than  ever. 

"  Suppose,"  the  idea  struck  him,  "  suppose,  Richard,  she 
doesn't  want  to  go  ?  " 

The  lover  sternly  continued  his  hunt.  He  found  the  pro- 
pelling machine  at  last,  and  put  it  on,  saying  under  its 
shadow  :  "  I'm  ready  !     Now  !  " 

Here  was  sadness  and  gloom  come  upon  them  !  Ripton 
likewise  commenced  the  search  for  his  doleful  casque,  and 
toppled  it  moodily  on  the  back  of  his  head  in  sign  of  glorious 
entei'prise  abandoned,  and  surrender  to  the  enemy. 

It  was  a  moment  when,  perhap.s,  one  who  sided  with 
parents  and  guardians  and  the  old  aviso  world,  might  have 
inclined  them  to  pursue  their  righteous  wi-etched  course,  and 
have  given  small  Cupid  a  smack  aiuJ  sent  him  home  to 
his  naughty  Mother.  Alas!  (it  is  1'jik  Pilgrim's  Scrip  in- 
terjecting) women  are  the  born  accomplices  of  mischief !  In 
bustles  Mrs.  Berry  to  clear  away  the  refection,  and  finds  the 
two  knights  helmed,  and  sees,  though  'tis  dusk,  that  they 
wear  doubtful  brows,  and  guesses  bad  things  for  her  dear 
God  Hymen  in  a  twinkling. 

"  Dear !  dour !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  neither  of  you  eaten 
a  scrap  !  And  t  here's  my  dear  young  lady  off  into  the  pret- 
tiest sleep  you  ovei-  see  !  " 

"  Ha!  "  cried  the  lover,  illuminated. 

"  Soft  as  a  baby  !  "  Mrs.  Berry  averred.  *'  I  went  to  look 
at  her  this  very  moment,  and  there's  not  a  bit  of  trouble  in 
her  breath.  It  come  and  it  go  like  the  sweetest  i-egular 
instrument  ever  made.  The  Black  Ox  haven't  trod  on  her 
foot  yet!  Most  like  it  was  the  air  of  London.  But  only 
fancy,  if  you  had  called  in  a  doctor !  Why,  I  shouldn't  have 
let  her  take  any  of  his  quackery.     Now,  thei-e !  " 

Ripton  attentively  observed  his  chief,  and  saw  him  doff 


S38  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICHARD  PEVEREL. 

his  hat  with  a  curious  cnution,  and  peer  into  its  ref^csa,  from 
which,  diu'ing  Mrs.  lieiTy's  speech,  he  di-ow  forth  a  little 
glove — dropped  there  by  some  freak  of  chance. 

"  Keep  mo,  keep  me,  now  you  have  me  !  "  sang  the  little 
glove,  and  amused  the  lover  with  a  thousand  conceits. 

"  When  will  she  wake,  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Berry  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  we  mustn't  go  for  disturbing  her,"  said  the  guileful 
good  creature.  "  Bless  ye  !  let  her  sleep  it  out.  And  if  you 
young  gentlemen  was  to  take  my  advice,  and  go  and  take  a 
walk  for  to  get  a  appetite — everybody  should  eat !  it's  their 
sacred  duty,  no  matter  what  their  feelings  be !  and  I  say  it 
who  'm  no  chicken  ! — I'll  frickashee  this — which  is  a  chicken 
—against  your  return.     I'm  a  cook,  I  can  assure  ye  !  " 

The  lover  seized  her  two  hands.  "  You're  the  best  old 
soul  in  the  world  !  "  he  cried.  Mrs.  Berry  appeared  willing 
to  kiss  him.  "  We  won't  disturb  her.  Let  her  sleep.  Keep 
her  in  bed,  Mrs.  Berry.  Will  you  ?  And  Ave'll  call  to 
inquire  after  her  this  evening,  and  come  and  see  her  to-mor- 
row. I'm  sure  you'll  be  kind  to  her.  There  !  there  !  "  Mrs. 
Berry  was  preparing  to  whimper.  "  I  trust  her  to  you,  you 
see.     Good-bye,  you  dear  old  soul." 

He  smuggled  a  handful  of  gold  into  her  keeping,  and  went 
to  dine  with  his  uncles,  happy  and  hungry. 

Before  they  reached  the  hotel,  they  had  agreed  to  draw 
Mrs.  Berry  into  their  confidence,  telling  her  (with  embellish- 
ments) all  save  their  names,  so  that  they  might  enjoy  the 
counsel  and  assistance  of  that  trump  of  a  woman,  and  yet 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  her.  Lucy  was  to  receive  the 
name  of  Letitia,  Ripton's  youngest  and  best-looking  sister. 
The  heartless  fellow  proposed  it  in  cruel  mockery  of  an  old 
weakness  of  hers. 

"Letitia!"  mused  Richard.  "I  like  the  name.  Both 
begin  with  L,  There's  something  soft — womanlike — in  the 
L.'s." 

Material  Ripton  remarked  that  they  looked  like  pounds  on 
paper.  The  lover  roamed  through  his  golden  groves.  "  Lucy 
Feverel !  that  sounds  better !  I  w^onder  where  Ralph  is.  I 
should  like  to  hel]>  him.  He's  in  love  with  my  cousin  Clare. 
He'll  never  do  anything  till  he  marries.  No  man  can.  I'm 
going  to  do  a  hundred  things  when  it's  over.  We  shall 
travel   firsti     I  want  to  see  the  Alps.      One  doesn't  know 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  239 

what  the  earth  is  till  one  has  seen  the  Alps.  What  a  delight 
it  will  be  to  her !     I  fancy  I  see  her  eyes  gazing-  up  at  them. 

'*  *  And  oh,  your  dear  blue  eyes,  that  heavenward  glance 
With  kindred  beauty,  banished  humbleness, 
Past  weeping  for  mortality's  distress — 
Yet  from  your  soul  a  tear  hangs  there  in  trance. 
And  fills,  but  does  not  fall  ; 
Softly  I  hear  it  call 
At  heaven's  gate,  till  Sister  Seraphs  press 
To  look  on  you  their  old  love  from  the  skies  : 
Those  are  the  eyes  of  Seraphs  bright  on  your  blue  eyes  I  ** 

Beautiful !  These  lines,  Rip,  were  written  by  a  man  who 
was  once  a  friend  of  my  father's.  I  intend  to  find  him  and 
make  them  friends  again.  You  don't  care  for  poetry.  It's 
no  use  your  trying  to  swallow  it,  Rip  !  " 

"  It  sounds  very  nice,"  said  Ripton,  modestly  shutting  his 
mouth. 

"  The  Alps !  Italy !  Rome !  and  then  I  shall  go  to  the 
East,"  the  hero  continued.  "  She's  ready  to  go  anywhere 
with  me,  the  dear  brave  heart !  Oh,  the  glorious  golden 
East !  I  dream  of  the  desei-t.  I  dream  I'm  chief  of  an 
Arab  tribe,  and  we  fly  all  white  in  the  moonlight  on  our 
mares,  and  hurry  to  the  rescue  of  my  darling  !  And  we 
push  the  spears,  and  we  scatter  them,  and  I  come  to  the  tent 
where  she  crouches,  and  catch  her  to  my  saddle,  and  away  ! 
—Rip  !  what  a  life  ! " 

Ripton  strove  to  imagine  he  could  enjoy  it.  "  And  then 
we  shall  come  home,  and  I  shall  lead  Austin's  life,  with  her 
to  help  me.  First  be  virtuous,  Rip  !  and  then  serve  your 
country  heart  and  soul  A  wise  man  told  me  that.  I  think 
I  sball  do  something." 

Sunshine  and  cloud,  cloud  and  sunshine,  passed  over  tho 
lover.  Now  life  was  a  narrow  ring;  now  the  distances 
extended.  An  hour  ago  and  food  was  hateful.  Now  he 
manfully  refreshed  his  nature,  and  joined  in  Algernon's 
encomiums  on  Miss  Letitia  Thompson. 

Alcantime  Beauty  slept,  watched  by  the  veteran  volunteer 
of  the  hero's  band.  Lucy  awoke  from  dreams  which  seemed 
reality,  to  the  reality  which  was  a  di-cam.  She  awoke  call- 
ing for  some  friend,  "  Margai-et !  "  and  heard  one  say,  "  My 
name  is  Bessy  Berry,  my  love!  not  Margaret."  Then  she 
asked  2>iteously  where  she  was,  ond  where  was  Margai-et,  her 


240  THE  ORDKAI,  OK  KICrTAIID  PEVEREL. 

dear  f  rioiul,  and  Mrs.  Berry  whispered,  "  Sure  you've  got  a 
deai-or !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Lucy,  sinking  on  her  pillow,  overwhelmed 
by  the  strantjeness  of  her  state. 

Mrs.  Ik-rry  closed  the  frill  of  her  nightgown  and  adjusted 
the  heilrlothes  quietly. 

Hit  name  was  hi-eathed. 

"  Yes,  my  love  ?  "  she  said. 

"Is  he  here?" 

"  He's  gone,  my  dear." 

*'  Gone  y — Oh,  where  ?  "  The  young  girl  started  up  in  dis- 
onlcr. 

"Gone,  to  be  back,  my  love !  Ah!  that  young  gentle- 
man !  "  Mi"S.  Berry  chanted  :  "  Not  a  morsel  have  he  eat ; 
not  a  drop  have  he  drunk !  " 

"  0  Mrs.  Berry !  why  did  you  not  make  him  ? "  Lucy 
wept  for  the  famine-struck  hero  who  was  just  then  feeding 
miirhtily. 

Mrs.  Berry  explained  that  to  make  one  eat  w^ho  thought 
the  darling  of  his  heart  like  to  die,  was  a  sheer  impossibility 
for  the  cleverest  of  women  ;  and  on  this  deep  truth  Lucy 
reflected,  with  her  eyes  wide  ai  the  candle.  She  wanted  one 
to  pour  her  feelings  out  to.  She  slid  her  hand  fi-om  under 
the  bedclothes,  and  took  Mrs.  Berry's,  and  kissed  it.  The 
good  creature  required  no  further  avowal  of  her  secret,  but 
forthwith  leaned  hvv  consummate  bosom  to  the  pillow,  and 
petitioned  Heaven  Lo  bless  them  both  ! — Then  the  little  bride 
was  alarmed,  and  wondered  how  Mrs.  Berry  could  have 
guessed  It. 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  *'  your  love  is  out  of  your  eyes, 
and  out  of  everything  ye  do."  And  the  little  bride  wondered 
more.  She  thought  she  had  been  so  very  cautious  not  to 
betray  it.  The  common  woman  in  them  made  cheer  together 
after  their  own  April  fashion.  Following  which  Mrs.  lierry 
probed  for  the  sweet  particulars  of  this  beautiful  love-match; 
but  the  little  bride's  lips  wei-e  locked.  She  only  said  her 
lover  was  above  her  in  station. 

"  And  you're  a  Catholic,  my  dear ! " 

"  Yes,  .Mrs.  Berry  !  " 

*'And  him  a  Protestant." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Berry  !  " 

•'  Dear,  deai  ! — And  n-hy  shouldn't  ye  be  ?  "  she  ejaculated, 


PREPARATIONS  FOK  ACTION.  241 

seeing  sadness  return  to  the  brJdal  babe.  "  So  as  jou  was 
born,  so  shall  ye  be !  But  you'll  h&ve  to  make  your  arrange- 
ments about  the  children.  Tlie  girls  to  worship  with  you* 
the  boys  wilh  him.  It's  the  same  God,  my  dear!  You 
mustn't  blush  at  it,  though  yon  do  look  so  pretty.  If  my 
young  gentleman  could  see  you  now  !  " 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Berry  !  "  Lucy  murmured. 

"  Why,  he  will,  you  know,  my  dear !  " 

"  Oh,  please,  Mrs.  Berry  !  " 

"  And  you  that  can't  bear  the  thoughts  of  it !  Well,  I  do 
wish  there  was  fathers  and  mothers  on  both  sides  and  dock- 
_  ments  signed,  and  bridesmaids,  and  a  breakfast !  but  love  ia 
love,  and  ever  will  be,  in  spite  of  them." 

She  made  other  and  deeper  dives  into  the  little  heart,  but 
though  she  drew  up  pearls,  they  were  not  of  the  kind  she 
searched  for.  The  one  fact  that  hung  as  a  fruit  upon  her 
tree  of  Love,  Lucy  had  given  her;  she  would  not,  in  fealty  to 
her  lover,  reveal  its  growth  and  history,  however  sadly  she 
yearned  to  pour  out  all  to  this  dear  old  Mother  Confessor. 

Her  conduct  drove  Mrs.  Berry  from  the  rosy  to  the 
autumnal  view  of  matrimony,  generally  heralded  by  the 
announcement  that  it  is  a  lottery. 

"And  when  you  see  your  ticket,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "you 
sha'n't  know  whether  it's  a  prize  or  a  blank.  And,  Lord 
knows  !  some  go  on  thinking  it's  a  prize  when  it  turns  on  'em 
and  tears  'em.  I'm  one  of  the  blanks,  my  dear !  I  drew  a 
blank  in  Berry.  He  was  a  black  Berry  to  me,  my  dear ! 
Smile  away !  he  truly  was,  and  I  a  jjrizin'  him  as  proud  as 
you  can  conceive !  My  dear !  "  Mrs.  Berry  pressed  her 
hands  flat  on  her  apron.  "  We  hadn't  been  a  three  months 
man  and  wife,  when  that  man — it  wasn't  the  honeymoon, 
which  some  can't  say — that  man — Yes  !  he  kicked  mo.  His 
wedded  wife  he  kicked  !  Ah !  "  she  sighed  to  Lucy's  largo 
eyes,  "  I  could  have  borne  that.  A  blow  don't  touch  the 
heart,"  the  poor  creature  tapped  her  sensitive  side.  "  I  went 
on  loving  of  him,  for  I'm  a  soft  one.  Tall  as  a  Grenadier  he 
is,  and  when  out  of  service  grows  his  moustache.  I  used  to 
call  him  my  body  guardsman — like  a  Queen  !  I  flattered  him 
like  the  fools  we  women  are.  For,  take  my  word  for  it,  my 
dear,  there's  notliing  here  below  so  vain  as  a  man  !  That  I 
know.  But  I  didn't  deserve  it  ...  .  I'm  a  superior  cook 
....  I  did  not  deserve  that  noways."     ]\Ii\s.  Berry  thumped 

B 


24  J  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICIIAKD  FKVKKFI,. 

her  knoo,  and  acccntuntcd  up  to  her  climax  :  "  I  mciulcd 
liis  linen.  1  saw  to  his  adornments — ho  called  his  cluLlies, 
the  bad  man!  1  was  a  servant  to  liiin,  my  dear!  and  there — 
it  was  nine  montiis — nine  months  from  the  day  he  swear  to 
protect  and  cherish  and  that — nine  calendar  months,  and  my 
gentleman  is  off  with  another  woman  !  Bone  of  his  bone  1 
— pish  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Berry,  reckoning  her  wronijs  over 
vividly.  "  Here's  my  ring.  A  pretty  ornament  I  What  do 
it  mean  ?  I'm  for  tearin'  it  off  my  finger  a  dozen  times  in 
the  day.  It's  a  symbol  ?  I  call  it  a  tomfoolery  for  the  dead- 
alive  to  wear  it,  that's  a  widow  and  not  a  widow,  and  haven't 
got  a  name  for  what  she  is  in  any  Dixonary.  I've  looked, 
my  dear,  and  " — she  spread  out  her  arms — "  Johnson  haven't 
got  a  name  for  me !" 

At  this  impressive  woe  Mrs.  Berry's  voice  quavered  into 
Bobs.  Lucy  spoke  gentle  words  to  the  poor  outcast  from 
Johnson.  The  son-ows  of  Autumn  have  no  warning  for 
April.  The  little  bride,  for  all  her  tender  pity,  felt  happier 
•when  she  had  heard  her  landlady's  moving  tale  of  the  wicked- 
ness of  man,  which  cast  in  bright  relief  the  glory  of  that 
one  hero  who  was  hers.  Then  from  a  short  llight  of  incon- 
ceivable bliss,  she  fell,  shot  by  one  of  her  hundred  Aigus- 
eyed  fears. 

"  0  Mrs.  Berry  !  I'm  so  young !  Think  of  me — only  just 
seventeen !" 

Mrs.  Berry  immediately  dried  her  eyes  to  radiance. 
"  Young,  my  dear !  Nonsense !  There's  no  so  much  hai-m  in 
being  young,  here  and  there.  I  knew  an  Irish  lady  was 
maiTied  at  fourteen.  Her  daughter  married  close  on  fourteen. 
She  was  a  grandmother  by  thirty  !  When  any  strange  man 
began,  she  used  to  ask  him  what  pattern  caps  grandmotliers 
wore.  They'd  stare!  Bless  you!  the  grandmother  could 
have  married  over  and  over  again.  It  was  her  daughter's 
fault,  not  hers,  you  know." 

"  She  was  three  years  younger,"  mused  Lucy. 
"  She  married  beneath  her,  my  dear.  Ran  off  with  her 
father's  bailiff's  son.  'Ah,  Berry!'  she'd  say,  'if  I  hadn't 
been  foolish,  I  should  be  my  lady  now — not  Granny  !'  Her 
father  never  forgave  her — left  all  his  estates  out  of  the 
family." 

"Did  her  husband  always  love  her?"  Lucy  prefen-ed  to 
know. 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  243 

**  In  his  way,  mj  dear,  lie  did,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  coming 
upon  her  matrimonial  wisdom.  "  He  couldn't  help  himself. 
If  he  left  off.  he  began  again.  She  was  so  clever,  and  did 
make  him  so  comfortable.  Cook  !  there  wasn't  such  another 
cook  out  of  a  Alderman's  kitchen ;  no,  indeed  !  And  she  a 
born  lady !  That  tells  ye  it's  the  duty  of  all  women  !  She 
had  her  saying — '  When  the  parlour  fire  gets  low,  put  coals 
on  the  ketchen  fire  !'  and  a  good  saying  it  is  to  treasure. 
Such  is  man  !  no  use  in  havin'  their  hearts  if  ye  don't  have 
their  stomachs." 

Perceiving  that  she  grew  abstruse,  Mrs.  Berry  added 
briskly  :  "  You  know  nothing  about  that  yet,  my  dear.  Only 
mind  me  and  mark  me  :  don't  neglect  your  cookery.  Kissing 
don't  last :  cookery  do  !" 

Here,  with  an  aphorism  worthy  a  place  in  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip,  she  broke  off  to  go  posseting  for  her  dear  invalid. 
Lucy  was  quite  well  ;  very  eager  to  be  allowed  to  rise  and 
be  ready  when  the  knock  should  come.  Mrs.  Berry,  in  her 
loving  considerateness  for  the  little  bride,  positively  com- 
manded her  to  lie  down,  and  be  quiet,  and  submit  to  be 
nursed  and  chei'ished.  For  Mrs.  Beny  well  knew  that  ten 
minutes  alone  with  the  hero  could  only  be  had  while  the  little 
bride  was  in  that  unattainable  position. 

Thanks  to  her  strategy,  as  she  thought,  her  object  was 
gained.  The  night  did  not  pass  before  she  learnt,  from  the 
hero's  own  mouth,  that  Mr.  Richards,  the  father  of  the  hero, 
and  a  stern  lawyer,  was  adverse  to  his  union  with  this  young 
lady  he  loved,  because  of  a  ward  of  his,  heiress  to  an  immense 
property,  whom  he  desired  his  son  to  espouse  ;  and  because 
his  darling  Letitia  was  a  Catholic — Letitia,  the  sole  daugh- 
ter of  a  brave  naval  officer  deceased,  and  in  the  hands  of  a 
savage  uncle,  who  wanted  to  sacrifice  this  beauty  to  a  brute 
of  a  son.  Mrs.  Berry  listened  credulously  to  the  emphatic 
narrative,  and  spoke  to  the  effect  that  the  wickedness  of  old 
people  formed  the  excuse  for  the  wildncss  of  young  ones. 
The  ceremonious  administr<ation  of  oaths  of  secresy  and 
devotion  over,  she  was  enrolled  in  the  hero's  band,  which 
now  numbered  three,  and  entered  upon  the  duties  with 
feminine  energy,  for  there  are  no  conspii-ators  like  women. 
Hipton's  lieutenancy  became  a  sinecure,  his  rank  merely 
titular.  He  had  never  been  married — he  knew  nothing 
about  licenses,  except  that  they  must  be  obtained,  and  were 

K,  2 


244  THF  ORDKAT,  OF  nTrnAm  FEVEKEL. 

tmt  difTicult — he  liad  not  an  idea  that  so  many  days'  warning 
must  1)0  i;iv(Mi  to  tho  cloii,'yman  of  tho  parish  Avlicrc  one  of 
the  |iHrties  was  resident.  Jlow  should  he  ?  All  his  foro- 
thouuflit  was  comprised  in  the  rinq,  and  whenever  the  discus- 
sion of  arranijements  for  the  great  event  cfrew  particularly 
hot  and  important,  ho  would  say,  with  a  shrewd  nod  :  "We 
mustn't  forj^et  the  ring,  you  know,  Mrs.  lierry  ! "  and  the 
new  memher  was  only  prevented  by  natural  complaccnco 
from  shouting  :  "  Oh,  drat  ye  !  and  your  ring  too."  Mrs. 
Herrv  had  acted  conspicuously  in  fifteen  marriages,  by  banns, 
and  by  licenses,  and  to  have  such  an  obvious  requisite  dinned 
in  her  ears  was  exasperating.  They  could  not  have  con- 
tracted alliance  with  an  auxiliary  more  invaluable,  an 
authority  so  profound  ;  and  they  acknowledged  it  to  them- 
selves. The  hero  marched  like  an  automaton  at  her  bidding  ; 
Lieutenant  Thompson  was  rejoiced  to  perform  services  as 
errand-boy  in  the  enterprise. 

"  It's  in  hopes  you'll  be  happier  than  me,  I  do  it,"  said  the 
devout  and  charitable  Berry.  "  Marriages  is  made  in 
heaven,  they  say ;  and  if  that's  the  case,  I  say  they  don't 
take  much  account  of  us  below  !  " 

Her  own  woful  experiences  had  been  given  to  the  hero  in 
exchange  for  his  story  of  cruel  parents. 

Richard  vowed  to  her  that  he  would  henceforth  hold  it  a 
duty  to  hunt  out  the  wanderer  from  wedded  bonds,  and 
bring  him  back  bound  and  suppliant. 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  !  "  said  Mrs.  Berry,  pursing  prophetic 
wrinkles  :  "  he'll  come  of  his  own  accord.  Never  anywheres 
will  he  meet  such  a  cook  as  Bessy  Berry !  And  he  know  her 
value  in  his  heart  of  hearts.  And  I  do  believe,  when  he  do 
come,  1  shall  be  opening  these  arms  to  him  again,  and  not 
slapping  his  impidence  in  the  face — I'm  that  soft !  I  always 
was — in  matrimony,  Mr.  Richards  !  " 

As  when  nations  are  secretly  preparing  for  war,  the  docks 
and  arsenals  hammer  night  and  day,  and  busy  contractors 
measure  time  by  inches,  and  the  air  hums  around  for  leagues 
as  it  were  myriads  of  bees,  so  the  house  and  neiglibourhood 
of  the  matrimonial  soft  one  resounded  in  the  heroic  style,  and 
knew  little  of  the  changes  of  light  decreed  by  Creation.  Mi"S. 
Bciry  was  the  general  of  the  hour.  Down  to  Doctors'  Com- 
mons she  expedited  the  hero,  instructing  him  how  boldly  to 
face  the  Law,  and  fib  :  for  that  the  Law  never  could  resist  a 


PEEPARATIONS  FOR  ACTION.  245 

f  b  and  a  bold  face.  Down  the  hero  went,  and  proclaimed 
his  presence.  And  lo  !  the  Law  danced  to  him  its  sedatest 
lovely  bear's-dance.  Think  ye  the  Law  less  susceptible  to  him 
than  flesh  and  blood  ?  With  a  beautiful  confidence  it  put 
the  few  familiar  questions  to  him,  and  nodded  to  his  replies : 
then  stamped  the  bond,  and  took  the  fee.  It  must  be  an  old 
vagabond  at  heart  that  can  permit  the  irrevocable  to  go  so 
cheap,  even  to  a  hero.  For  only  mark  him  when  he  is  peti- 
tioned by  heroes  and  heroines  to  undo  what  he  does  so 
easily !  That  sma,ll  archway  of  Doctors'  Commons  seems 
the  eye  of  a  needle,  through  which  the  lean  purse  has  a  way, 
somehow,  of  slipping  more  readily  than  the  portly ;  but  once 
through,  all  are  camels  alike,  the  lean  purse  an  especially 
big  camel.  Dispensing  tremendous  mari'iage  as  it  does,  the 
Law  can  have  no  conscience. 

"  I  hadn't  the  slightest  difiiculty,"  said  the  exulting  hero. 

"  Of  course  not !  "  returns  Mrs.  Berry.  "  It's  as  easy,  if 
ye're  in  earnest,  as  buying  a  plum  bun." 

Likewise  the  ambassador  of  the  hero  went  to  claim  the 
promise  of  the  Church  to  be  in  attendance  on  a  certain  spot,  on 
a  certain  day,  and  there  hear  oath  of  eternal  fealty,  and  gird 
him  about  with  all  its  forces :  which  the  Church,  receiving  a 
wink  from  the  Law,  obsequiously  engaged  to  do,  for  less 
than  the  price  of  a  plum-cake. 

Meantime,  while  craftsmen  and  skilled  women,  directed 
by  Mrs.  Berry,  were  toiling  to  deck  the  day  at  hand,  Rayn- 
ham  and  Belthorpe  slept, — the  former  soundly ;  and  one  day 
was  as  another  to  them.  Regularly  every  morning  a  letter 
arrived  from  Richai-d  to  his  father,  containing  observations 
on  the  phenomena  of  London ;  remarks  (mainly  cynical)  on 
the  speeches  and  acts  of  Parliament;  and  reasons  for  nol 
having  yet  been  able  to  call  on  tlie  Grandisons.  They  were 
certainly  rather  monotonous  and  spiritless.  The  baronet  did 
not  complain.  That  cold  dutiful  tone  assured  him  there  was 
no  intei-nal  trouble  or  distraction.  "  The  letters  of  a  health- 
ful physique  !  "  he  said  to  Lady  Blandish,  with  sure  insight. 
Complacently  he  sat  and  smiled,  little  witting  that  his  son's 
ordeal  was  imminent,  and  that  his  son's  oi-deal  was 
to  be  his  own.  Hippias  wrote  that  his  nephew  was 
killing  him  by  making  appointments  which  he  never  kept, 
and  altogether  neglecting  him  in  the  most  shameless  way, 
^<>   that    his    (jraii'il ionic   centre  was    in   a    ten    times    worse 


246  TUT.  ORPEAT,  OF  TJTCFARD  PEVEREL. 

Htatc  tlian  when  ho  left  Ixaynharn.  He  wrote  very  bitterlj, 
but  it  was  hard  to  ft'd  CH)in|iassi()!i  for  liis  olTcii(ied  stomach. 
On  the  otlicr  hand,  young  Tom  lilaizo  Avas  not  forth- 
coming, and  liad  despatched  no  tidings  whatever.  Farmer 
JUaize  smoked  his  pipe  evening  after  evening,  vastly  dis- 
turlifd.  London  was  a  hirge  place — young  Tom  might  be 
lost  in  it,  he  thought ;  and  young  Tom  had  his  weaknesses. 
A  wolf  at  Belthorpe,  he  was  likely  to  be  a  sheep  in  London, 
as  yokels  have  proved.  But  Avhat  had  become  of  Lucy  ? 
This  consideration  almost  sent  Farmer  Blaize  oil  to  London 
direct,  and  he  would  have  gone  had  not  his  pipe  enlightened 
him.  A  young  fellow  might  play  truant  and  get  into  a 
scrape,  but  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  were  sure  to 
be  heard  of,  unless  they  were  acting  in  complicity.  Why,  of 
course,  young  Tom  had  behaved  like  a  man,  the  rascal !  and 
married  her  outright  there,  while  he  had  the  chance.  It  was 
a  long  guess.  Still  it  was  the  only  reasonable  way  of 
accounting  for  his  extraordinary  silence,  and  therefore  the 
farmer  held  to  it  that  he  had  done  the  deed.  He  argued  as 
modern  men  do  who  think  the  hero,  the  upsetter  of  ordinary 
calculations,  is  gone  from  us.  So,  after  despatching  a  letter 
to  a  friend  in  town  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  son  Tom,  he 
continued  awhile  to  smoke  his  pipe,  rather  elated  than  not, 
and  mused  on  the  shrewd  manner  he  should  adopt  when 
Master  Honeymoon  did  appear. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  second  week  of  Richard's 
absence,  Tom  Bakewell  came  to  Raynham  for  Cassandra, 
and  privately  handed  a  letter  to  the  Eighteenth  Century, 
containing  a  request  for  money,  and  a  round  sum.  The 
Eighteenth  Century  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  gave  Totu 
a  letter  in  return,  enclosing  a  cheque  on  her  bankers,  amply 
providing  to  keep  the  heroic  engine  in  motion  at  a  moderate 
pace.  Tom  went  back,  and  Raynham  and  Lobourne  slept 
and  dreamed  not  of  the  morrow.  The  System,  wedded  to 
Time,  slept,  and  knew  not  how  he  had  been  outraged — anti- 
cipated by  seven  pregnant  seasons.  For  Time  had  heard 
the  hero  swear  to  that  legalizing  instrument,  and  had  also 
registered  an  oath.  Ah  me !  venerable  Hebrew  Time  !  he  is 
■unforgiving.  Half  the  confusion  and  fever  of  the  world 
comes  of  this  vendetta  he  declares  against  the  hapless 
innocents  who  have  once  done  him  a  wrong.  They  cannot 
escape  him.    They  will  never  outlive  it.    The  father  of  jokes, 


THE  LAST  ACT  OP  A  COMEDY.  247 

ht>  is  himself  no  joke ;  which  it  seems  the  business  of  men  to 
discover. 

The  days  roll  round.  He  is  theii*  servant  now.  Mrs. 
Berry  has  a  new  satin  gown,  a  beautiful  bonnet,  a  gold 
brooch,  and  sweet  gloves,  presented  to  her  by  the  hero, 
wherein  to  stand  by  his  bride  at  the  altar  to-morrow ;  and, 
instead  of  being  an  old  wary  hen,  she  is  as  much  a  chicken  as 
any  of  the  party,  such  has  been  the  magic  of  these  articles. 
Fathers  she  sees  accepting  the  facts  produced  for  them  by 
their  children ;  a  world  content  to  be  carved  out  as  it  pleases 
the  hero. 

At  last  Time  brings  the  bridal  eve,  and  is  blest  as  a  bene- 
factor. The  final  arrangements  are  made ;  the  bridegroom 
does  depart ;  and  Mrs.  Berry  lights  the  little  bride  to  her 
bed.  Lucy  stops  on  the  landing  where  there  is  an  old  clock 
eccentrically  correct  that  night.  'Tis  the  palpitating  pause 
before  the  gates  of  her  transfiguration.  Mrs.  Berry  sees  her 
put  her  rosy  finger  on  the  One  about  to  strike,  and  touch  all 
the  hours  successively  till  she  comes  to  the  Twelve  that 
shall  sound  "  Wife  "  in  her  ears  on  the  morrow,  moving  her 
lips  the  while,  and  looking  round  archly  solemn  when  she 
has  done ;  and  that  sight  so  catches  at  Mrs.  Berry's  heart 
that,  not  guessing  Time  to  be  the  poor  child's  enemy,  she 
endangers  her  candle  by  folding  Lucy  warmly  in  her  arms, 
whimpering,  "  Bless  you  for  a  darling !  you  innocent  lamb  ! 
You  shall  be  happy !  You  shall !  " 
Old  Time  gazes  grimly  ahead. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


IN  WHICH  THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY  TAKES  THE  PLACE 
OF  THE  FIRST. 

Although  it  blew  hard  when  Cajsar  crossed  the  Rubicon, 
the  passage  of  that  river  is  commonly  calm;  calm  as 
Acheron.  '  So  long  as  he  gets  his  fare,  the  ferryman  does  not 
need  to  be  told  whom  ho  carries  :  he  pulls  with  a  will,  and 
heroes  may  be  over  in  half  an  hour.     Only  when  they  stand 


248  THE  Oi;i>KAI,  OF  RICUAKn  FEVKREL. 

on  the  opposite  bank,  do  they  see  what  a  leap  they  have 
taken.  The  shores  they  have  i-eliiKpiished  shrink  to  an 
iiitinite  remoteness.  There  they  have  dreamed  :  here  they 
must  aet.  There  lie  youth  and  irresolution  :  here  manhood 
rtiul  purpose.  They  are  veritalily  in  another  land  :  a  moral 
Acheron  divides  their  life.  Their  memories  scarce  seem 
their  own !  The  PniLOsopincAL  Geography  (about  to  be 
]niblislied)  observes  that  each  man  has,  one  time  or  other,  a 
little  Kubicon — a  clear,  or  a  fonl,  water  to  cross.  It  is  asked 
him:  "Wilt  thou  Aved  this  Fate,  and  give  up  all  behind 
thee  ?  "  And  "  I  will,"  firmly  pronounced,  speeds  him  over. 
The  above-named  manuscript  authority  informs  us  that  by 
far  the  c^-eater  number  of  carcases  rolled  by  this  heroic  flood 
to  its  sister  stream  below,  are  those  of  fellows  who  have  re- 
pented their  pledge,  and  have  tried  to  swim  back  to  the  bank 
they  have  blotted  out.  For  though  every  man  of  us  may  be 
a  hero  for  one  fatal  minute,  very  few  remain  so  after  a  day's 
march  even :  and  who  wonders  that  Madam  Fate  is  indig- 
nant, and  wears  the  features  of  the  terrible  Universal  Fate 
to  him  ?  Fail  before  her,  either  in  heart,  or  in  act,  and  lo, 
how  the  alluring  loves  in  her  visage  wither  and  sicken  to 
what  it  is  modelled  on  !  Be  your  Rubicon  big  or  small, 
clear  or  foul,  it  is  the  same  :  you  shall  not  return.  On — or 
to  Acheron ! — I  subscribe  to  that  saying  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip: 

"  The  danger  of  a  little  knowledge  of  things  is  disputable : 
hut  beware  the  little  knowledge  of  one's  self ! " 

Richard  Feverel  was  now  crossing  the  River  of  his  Ordeal. 
Already  the  mists  were  stealing  over  the  land  he  had  left : 
his  life  was  cut  in  two,  and  he  breathed  but  the  air  that  met 
his  nostrils.  His  father,  his  father's  love,  his  boyhood  and 
ambition,  were  shadowy.  His  poetic  dreams  had  taken  a 
living  attainable  shape.  He  had  a  distincter  impression  of 
the  Autumnal  Berry  and  her  household  than  of  anything  at 
Rajmham.  And  yet  the  young  man  loved  his  father,  loved 
his  home :  and  I  dare  say  Cajsar  loved  Rome :  but  whether 
he  did  or  no,  Cajsar  when  he  killed  the  Republic  was  quite 
bald,  and  the  hero  we  are  dealing  with  is  scarce  beginning 
to  feel  his  despotic  moustache.  Did  he  know  what  he  was 
made  of  ?  Doubtless,  nothing  at  all.  But  honest  passion 
has  an  instinct  that  can  be  safer  than  conscious  wisdom. 
He  was  an  an-ow  diawn  to  the  head,  flying  from  the  bow. 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY.  249 

His  audacious  mendacities  and  subterfuges  did  not  strike 
him  as  in  any  way  criminal  ;  for  he  was  perfectly  sure  that 
the  winning  and  securing  of  Lucy  would  in  the  end  be  bois- 
terously approved  of,  and  in  that  case  were  not  the  means 
justified  ?  Not  that  he  took  trouble  to  argue  thus,  as  older 
liei-oes  and  self-convicting  villains  are  in  the  habit  of  doing, 
to  deduce  a  clear  conscience.  Conscience  and  Lucy  went 
together. 

It  was  a  soft  fair  day.  The  Rubicon  sparkled  in  the 
morning  sun.  One  of  those  days  when  London  embraces 
the  prospect  of  summer,  and  troops  forth  all  its  babies.  The 
pavement,  the  squares,  the  parks,  were  early  alive  with  the 
cries  of  young  Britain.  Violet  and  primrose  girls,  and  organ 
boys  with  military  monkeys,  and  systematic  bands  very  de- 
termined in  tone  if  not  in  tune,  filled  the  atmosphere,  and 
crowned  the  blazing  procession  of  omnibuses,  freighted  with 
business  men,  cityward,  where  a  column  of  reddish  brown 
smoke, — blown  aloft  by  the  South-west,  marked  the  scene  of 
conflict  to  which  these  persistent  warriors  repaired.  Richard 
had  seen  much  of  early  London  that  morning.  His  plans 
were  laid.  He  had  taken  care  to  ensure  his  personal  liberty 
against  accidents,  by  leaving  his  hotel  and  his  injui^ed  uncle 
Hippias  at  sunrise.  To-day  or  to-morrow  his  father  was  to 
arrive.  Farmer  Blaize,  Tom  Bakewell  reported  to  him,  was 
raging  in  town.  Another  day  and  she  might  be  torn  from 
liim :  but  to-day  this  miracle  of  creation  would  be  his,  and 
then  from  those  glittering  banks  yonder,  let  them  summon 
him  to  suri'ender  her  who  dared  !  The  position  of  things 
looked  so  propitious  that  he  naturally  thought  the  powers 
waiting  on  love  conspired  in  his  behalf.  And  she,  too — 
since  she  must  cross  this  river,  she  had  sworn  to  him  to  be 
brave,  and  do  him  honour,  and  wear  the  true  gladness  of  her 
heart  in  her  face.  Without  a  suspicion  of  folly  in  his  acts, 
or  fear  of  results,  Richard  strolled  into  Kensington  Gardens, 
breakfasting  on  the  foreshadow  of  his  great  joy,  now  with  a 
vision  of  his  bride,  now  of  the  new  life  opening  to  him. 
Mountain  masses  of  clouds,  rounded  in  sunlight,  swung  up 
the  blue.  The  flowering  chestnut  pavilions  overhead  rustled 
and  hummed.  A  sound  in  his  ears  as  of  a  banner  unfolding 
in  the  joyful  distance  lulled  him. 

He  was  to  meet  his  bride  at  the  church  at  a  quarter  past 
eleven.     His   watch    said  a  quaitui-  to  ten.     He  strolled  on 


250  TnK  onnKAL  op  RICnARD  feverel. 

beneath  tlio  long'-stommoil  trees  toward  the  well  dedicated  to 
a  saint  obscure.  Some  people  were  drinkint^^  at  the  weU. 
A  tlorid  hidy  stood  by  a  yonn^'er  one,  who  had  a  little  silver 
muLT  half-way  to  her  mouth,  and  evinced  undisguised  dislike 
to  the  liquor  of  the  salutary  saint. 

"  Drink,  child !"  said  the  maturer  lady.  "  That  is  only 
yoiu*  second  mug.  I  insist  upon  your  drinking  three  full  ones 
every  morning  we're  in  town.  Your  constitution  positively 
requires  iron  !" 

"  But,  mama,"  the  other  expostulated,  "  it's  so  nasty.  I 
shall  be  sick." 

"Drink!"  was  the  harsh  injunction.  "Nothing  to  the 
GeiTnan  waters,  my  dear.  Here,  let  me  taste."  She  took 
the  mug  and  gave  it  a  flying  kiss.  "  I  declare  I  thinlc  it 
almost  nice — not  at  all  objectionable.  Pray  taste  it,"  she 
said  to  a  gentleman  standing  below  them  to  act  as  cup- 
bearer. 

An  unmistakable  cis-Rubicon  voice  replied :  "  Cei-tainly, 
if  it's  good  fellowship ;  though  I  confess  I  don't  think 
mutual  sickness  a  very  engaging  ceremony." 

Can  one  never  escape  from  one's  relatives  ?  Richard  ejacu- 
lated inwardly. 

Without  a  doubt  those  people  were  Mrs.  Doria,  Clare,  and 
Adrian.     He  had  them  under  his  eyes. 

Clare,  peeping  up  from  her  constitutional  dose  to  make 
sure  no  man  was  near  to  see  the  possible  consequence  of  it, 
•was  the  first  to  perceive  him.     Her  hand  di-o])ped. 

"  Now  pray  drink,  and  do  not  fuss  !"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

"  Mama  !"  Clare  gasped. 

Richard  came  forward,  and  capitulated  honourably,  since 
retreat  was  out  of  the  question.  ^Irs.  Doria  swam  to  meet 
bim:  "  My  own  boy  !  My  dear  Richard!"  profuse  of  excla- 
mations. Clare  shyly  greeted  him.  Adrian  kept  in  the 
background. 

"^V^ly,  we  were  coming  for  you  to-day,  Richard,"  said 
!Mrs.  Doria,  smiling  effusion;  and  rattled  on,  "We  want 
another  cavalier.  This  is  delightful !  My  dear  nephew ! 
You  have  growTi  from  a  boy  to  a  man.  And  there's  down  on 
his  lip  I  And  what  brings  you  here  at  such  an  hour  in  the 
morning?  Poetry,  I  suppose  !  Here,  take  my  arm,  child. — 
Clare !  finish  that  mug  and  thank  your  cousin  for  sparing 
jou  the  third.      I  always   bring   her,    when   we   are  by  a 


THE  LAST  ACT  OP  A  COMEDY.  25 1 

chalybeate,  to  take  the  waters  before  breakfast.  We  have 
to  get  up  at  unearthly  hours.  Think,  my  dear  boy !  Mothvrs 
are  sacrifices  !  And  so  you've  been  alone  a  fortnight  with 
your  agreeable  uncle  !  A  charming  time  of  it  you  must  have 
had  !     Poor  Hippias !  what  may  be  his  last  nostrum  ?" 

"Nephew!"  Adrian  stretched  his  head  round  to  tho 
couple.  "  Doses  of  nephew  taken  morning  and  night  four 
teen  days !  And  he  guarantees  that  it  shall  destroy  an  iron 
constitution  in  a  month." 

Richard  mechanically  shook  Adrian's  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"  Quite  well,  Ricky  ?" 

*'  Yes  :  well  enough,"  Richard  answered. 

"  Well  ?"  resumed  his  vigorous  aunt,  walking  on  with  him, 
while  Clare  and  Adrian  followed.  "  I  really  never  saw  you 
looking  so  handsome.  There's  something  about  your  face — ■ 
look  at  me — you  needn't  blush.  You've  grow^n  to  an  Apollo, 
That  blue  buttoned-up  frock  coat  becomes  you  admirably — 
and  those  gloves,  and  that  easy  neck-tie.  Your  style  is 
irreproachable,  quite  a  style  of  your  own  !  And  nothing 
eccentric.  You  have  the  instinct  of  dress.  Dress  shows 
blood,  my  dear  boy,  as  much  as  anything  else.  Boy  ! — you 
see,  I  can't  forget  old  habits.  You  were  a  boy  when  I  left, 
and  now  ! — Do  you  see  any  change  in  Lim,  Clare  ?"  she 
turned  half  round  to  her  daughter. 

"  Richard  is  looking  very  well,  mama,"  said  Clare,  glanc- 
ing at  him  under  her  eyelids. 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  you,  my  dear. — Take  my 
arm,  Richard.  Are  you  afraid  of  your  aunt  ?  I  want  to  <j;ct 
used  to  you.  Won't  it  be  pleasant,  our  being  all  in  town 
together  in  the  season  ?  How  fresh  the  Opera  will  be  to 
you!  Austin,  I  hear,  takes  stalls.  You  can  come  to  the 
Forey's  box  when  you  like.  We  are  staying  with  the  Foreys 
close  by  here.  I  think  it's  a  little  too  far  out,  you  know  ; 
but  they  like  the  neighbourhood.  This  is  what  I  have 
always  said  :  Give  him  more  liberty  !  Austin  has  seen  it  at 
last.     How  do  you  think  Clare  looking  ?  " 

The  question  had  to  be  repeated.  Richard  surveyed  his 
cousin  hastily,  and  praised  her  looks, 

"Pale  !  "  Mrs.  Doria  sighed. 

"Rather  pale,  aunt." 

*'  Gi'own  very  much — don't  you  think,  Richard  ?** 

"  Vei-y  tall  gii-1  indeed,  aunt." 


251  TIIK  ORDKAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

"  If  slio  hfiil  but  a  Hitlo  nidro  colour,  my  dear  RichaiTl! 
I'm  suri'  1  L,Mvi>  luT  all  llio  iron  she  can  swallow,  but  iliafc 
pallor  still  continues.  I  think  slio  does  not  prosjtor  away 
from  her  old  companion.  She  was  accustomed  to  look  up  to 
you,  Richard" 

"  Did  you  get  llalj)h'8  letter,  aunt  ?  "  Richard  interrupted 
her. 

"  Absurd  !  "  ^Fr.s.  Doria  pressed  his  arm.  "  The  nonsense 
of  a  boy  !     Why  did  you  undertake  to  forward  such  stuff  ?  " 

"  I'm  certain  he  loves  her,"  said  Richard,  in  a  serious  way. 

The  maternal  eyes  narrowed  on  him.  "  Life,  my  dear 
Richanl,  is  a  game  of  cross- purposes,"  she  observed,  drop- 
ping her  fluency,  and  was  rather  angered  to  hear  him  laugh. 
He  excused  himself  by  saying  that  she  spoke  so  like  his 
father. 

"  You  breakfast  Avith  us,"  she  freshened  off  again.  "  The 
Foreys  wish  to  see  you  ;  the  girls  are  dying  to  know  you. 
Do  you  know,  you  have  a  reputation  on  account  of  that " — • 
she  crushed  an  intruding  adjective — "  System  you  were 
brought  up  on.  You  mustn't  mind  it.  For  my  part,  I  think 
you  look  a  credit  to  it.  Don't  be  bashful  with  young  women, 
mind !  As  much  as  you  please  with  the  old  ones.  You 
know  how  to  behave  among  men.  There  you  have  your 
Drawing-room  Guide  !  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  proud  of  you. 
Am  I  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Doria  addressed  his  eyes  coaxingl}-. 

A  benevolent  idea  struck  Richard,  that  he  might  employ 
the  minutes  to  spare,  in  pleading  the  case  of  poor  Ralph  ; 
and,  as  he  was  drawn  along,  he  pulled  out  his  watch  to  note 
the  precise  number  of  minutes  he  could  dedicate  to  this 
charitable  office. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  *'  You  want  manners,  my 
dear  boy.  I  think  it  never  happened  to  me  before  that  a  man 
consulted  his  watch  in  my  presence." 

Richard  mildly  replied  that  he  had  an  engagement  at  a 
pailicular  hour,  up  to  which  he  was  her  servant. 

"  Fiddlededee  !  "  the  vivacious  lady  sang.  "  Now  I've  got 
you,  I  mean  to  keep  you.  Oh !  I've  heard  all  about  you. 
This  ridiculous  indiilerence  that  your  father  makes  so  much 
of !  Why,  of  course,  you  wanted  to  see  the  world !  A 
strong  healthy  young  man  shut  up  all  his  life  in  a  lonely 
hon.si; — no  friciii^s,  no  society,  no  amusements  but  those  of 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY.  253 

rustics !  Of  course  you  were  indifferent !  Your  intelligence 
and  superior  mind  alone  saved  you  from  becoming  a  dis- 
sipated country  boor. — Where  are  the  others  ?  " 

Clare  and  Adrian  came  up  at  a  quick  pace. 

"  My  damozel  dropped  something,"  Adrian  explained. 

Her  mother  asked  what  it  was. 

"  Nothing,  mama,"  said  Clara  demurely,  and  they  pro- 
ceeded as  before. 

Overborne  by  his  aunt's  fluency  of  tongue,  and  occupied  in 
acute  calculation  of  the  flying  minutes,  llichard  let  many 
pass  before  he  edged  in  a  word  for  Ralph.  When  he  did, 
Mrs.  Doria  stopped  him  immediately. 

"  I  must  tell  you,  child,  that  I  I'efuse  to  listen  to  such  rank 
idiotcy." 

"  It's  nothing  of  the  kind,  aunt." 

•'  The  fancy  of  a  boy." 

*'  He's  not  a  boy.     He's  half  a  year  older  than  I  am  !  " 

"  You  silly  child !  The  moment  you  fall  in  love,  you  all 
think  yourselves  men." 

"  On  my  honour,  aunt !  I  believe  he  loves  her  thoroughly." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so,  child  ?  " 

"Men  don't  speak  openly  of  those  things,"  said  Richard. 

"  Boys  do,"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

**  But  listen  to  me  in  earnest,  aunt.  I  want  you  to  be  kind 
to  Ralph.  Don't  drive  him  to — You  may  be  sorry  for  it.  Let 
him — do  let  him  write  to  her,  and  see  her.  I  believe  women 
are  as  cruel  as  men  in  these  things." 

"  I  never  encourage  absurdity,  Richard." 

*'  What  objection  liave  you  to  Ralph,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  both  good  families.  It's  not  that  absurdity, 
Richard.  It  will  be  to  his  credit  to  remember  that  his  first 
fancy  wasn't  a  dairymaid."  Mrs.  Doria  pitched  her  accent 
tellingly.     It  did  not  touch  her  nephew. 

"  Don't  you  want  Clare  ever  to  marry  ?"  He  put  the  last 
point  of  reason  to  her. 

Mrs.  Doria  laughed.  "  I  hope  so,  child.  We  must  find 
some  comfoi'table  old  gentleman  for  her." 

"  What  infamy !  "  mutters  Richard. 

"  And  I  engage  Ralph  shall  be  ready  to  dance  at  her  wed- 
ding, or  eat  a  hearty  breakfast — We  don't  dance  at  wed- 
diTigs  now,  and  very  properly.  It's  a  horrid  sad  business, 
not  to  bo  treated  with  levity. — Is  that  his  regiment  r* "  siio 


'27A  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  i'EVEREL. 

said,  as  tlioy  passed  out  of  tlie  hnssar-sentinellcd  gardens. 
"  TusIj,  tusli,  child  !  Master  Kalpli  will  recover,  as — hem! 
others  have  done.  A  little  headache — you  call  it  heartache 
— and  up  you  rise  again,  looking  better  than  ever.  No 
doubt,  to  liave  a  grain  of  sense  forced  into  your  brains,  you 
poor  dear  children  !  must  be  paiuful.  Girls  sufier  as  much 
as  bovs,  I  assure  you.  More,  for  their  heads  are  weaker, 
and  their  a])])etites  less  constant.  Do  I  talk  like  your  father 
now  y     Whatever  makes  the  boy  fidget  at  his  watch  so  ?  " 

liichard  stopped  short.     Time  spoke  urgently. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said. 

His  face  did  not  seem  good  for  trifling.  Mrs.  Doria  would 
trifle  in  spite. 

"  Listen,  Clare !  Richard  is  going.  He  says  he  has  an 
engagement.  What  possible  engagement  can  a  young  man 
have  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  ? — unless  he's  going  to 
be  married  ?  Eh  ?  Then  of  course  !  "  Mrs.  Doria  laughed 
at  the  ingenuity  of  her  suggestion. 

"  Is  the  church  handy,  Ricky  !  "  Sitid  Adrian.  "You  can 
still  give  us  half  an  hour  if  it  is.  The  celibate  hours  strike 
at  Twelve."     And  he  also  laughed  in  his  fashion. 

"  Won't  you  stay  with  us,  Richard  ?  "  Clare  asked.  She 
blushed  timidly,  and  her  voice  shook. 

Something  indefinite — a  sharp-edged  thrill  in  the  tones 
made  the  burning  bridegi-oom  speak  gently  to  her. 

"Indeed,  I  "would,  Care;  I  should  like  to  please  you,  but 
I  have  a  most  imj)erative  appointment — that  is,  I  promised 
— I  must  go.     I  shall  see  you  again  " 

ilrs.  Doria  took  forcible  possession  of  him.  "  Now  do 
come,  and  don't  waste  words.  I  insist  upon  your  having 
some  breakfast  first,  and  then,  if  you  really  must  go,  you 
shall.  Look  !  there's  the  house.  At  least  you  will  accom- 
pany your  aunt  to  the  door." 

Richard  conceded  this.  She  little  imagined  what  she 
re(|uired  of  him.  Two  of  his  golden  minutes  melted  into 
nothingness.  They  were  growing  to  be  jewels  of  price,  one  by 
one  more  and  more  precious  as  they  ran,  and  now  so  costly- 
rare — rich  as  his  blood !  not  to  kindest  relations,  dearest 
friends,  could  he  give  another.  The  die  is  cast !  Ferryman! 
push  off. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  he  cried,  nodding  bluffly  at  the  three  as  one, 
and  fled. 

They    watched    his    abrupt    muscular   stride  through  the 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY.  255 

gTounds  of  the  house.  He  looked  like  resolution  on  the 
march.  Mrs.  Doria,  as  usual  with  her  out  of  her  brother's 
hearing,  began  rating  the  System. 

"  See  what  becomes  of  that  nonsensical  education !  The 
boy  really  does  not  know  how  to  behave  like  a  common 
mortal.  He  has  some  paltry  appointment,  or  is  mad  after 
Bome  ridiculous  idea  of  his  own,  and  everything  must  be 
sacrificed  to  it !  That's  what  Austin  calls  concentration  of 
the  faculties.  I  think  it's  more  likely  to  lead  to  downright 
insanity  than  to  gi-eatness  of  any  kind.  And  so  I  shall  tell 
Austin.  It's  time  he  should  be  spoken  to  seriously  about 
him." 

"  He's  an  engine,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  Adrian.  "  He  isn't 
a  boy,  or  a  man,  but  an  engine.  And  he  appears  to  have 
been  at  high  pressure  since  he  came  to  town — out  all  day 
and  half  the  night." 

"  He's  mad  !  "  Mrs.  Doria  interjected. 

"  Not  at  all.  Extremely  shrewd  is  Master  Ricky,  and 
carries  as  open  an  eye  ahead  of  him  as  the  ships  before  Ti'oy. 
He's  more  than  a  match  for  any  of  us.  He  is  for  me,  I 
confess." 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  "  he  does  astonish  me  !" 

Adrian  begged  her  to  retain  her  astonishment  till  the  right 
season,  which  would  not  be  long  aiTiving, 

Their  common  wisdom  counselled  them  not  to  tell  the 
Foreys  of  their  hopeful  relative's  ungracious  behaviour. 
Clai-e  had  left  them.  When  Mrs.  Doi-ia  went  to  her  room 
her  daughter  was  there,  gazing  down  at  something  in  her 
hand,  which  she  guiltily  closed. 

In  answer  to  an  inquiry  why  she  had  not  gone  to  take  off 
her  things,  Clare  said  she  was  not  hungry.  Mrs.  Doi'ia 
lamented  the  obstinacy  of  a  constitution  that  no  quantity 
of  iron  could  affect,  and  eclipsed  the  looking-glass,  saying ; 
"Take  them  oft"  here,  child,  and  learn  to  assist  yourself." 

She  disentangled  her  bonnet  from  the  ari-ay  of  her  s[)road- 
ing  hair,  talking  of  Richard,  and  his  haiidsome  appeai-ance, 
and  extraordinary  conduct.  Clai-e  kei)t  opening  and  shutting 
her  hand,  in  an  attitude  half  ])onsive,  half  listless.  She  did 
not  stir  to  undress.  A  joyless  dimple  hung  in  one  pale  cheek, 
and  she  drew  long  even  breaths. 

Mrs.  Doria,  assured  by  the  glass  that  she  was  leady  to 
show,  came  lo  her  daughter. 


2.'>f^  THF,  ORDEAI,  OF  RICHAnn  PKVKRKL. 

"  Xow  really,"  sho  said,  "you  are  too  lielploss,  my  dear 
You  cannot  do  a  tliitii'' without  a  do/.ou  women  at  yonr  elbow. 
"Wliat  will  become  of  you?  Yon  will  have  to  marry  a  mil- 
lionaire.— What's  the  matter  with  you,  child  F" 

Clare  undid  her  tis^ht-shut  fingers,  as  if  to  some  attraction 
of  her  eyes,  and  displayed  a  small  gold  hoop  on  the  palm  of 
a  green  glove. 

"  A  wedding-ring !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Doria,  inspecting  the 
curiosity  most  daintily. 

There  on  Clare's  pale  green  glove  lay  a  wedding-ring  ! 

Rapid  questions  as  to  where,  when,  how,  it  was  found, 
beset  Clare,  who  replied:  "In  the  Gardens,  mama.  This 
morning.     When  I  was  walking  behind  Richard." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  did  not  give  it  you,  Clare  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  mama !  he  did  not  give  it  me." 

"  Of  course  not !  only  he  does  such  absurd  things !  I 
thought,  perhaps — these  boys  are  so  exceedingly  ridiculous!" 
Mrs.  Doria  had  an  idea  that  it  might  have  been  concerted 
between  the  two  young  gentlemen,  Richard  and  Ralph,  that 
the  former  should  present  this  token  of  hymona^al  devotion 
from  the  latter  to  the  yranglady  of  his  love  ;  but  a  moment's 
reflection  exonerated  boys  even  from  such  preposterous  be- 
haviour. 

"  Now,  I  wonder,"  she  speculated  on  Clare's  cold  face, 
"  I  do  wonder  whether  it's  lucky  to  find  a  wedding-ring  ? 
What  very  quick  eyes  you  have,  my  darling!"  Mrs.  Doria 
kissed  her.  She  thought  it  must  be  lucky,  and  the  circum- 
stance made  her  feel  tender  to  her  child.  Her  child  did  not 
move  to  the  kiss. 

"  Let's  see  whether  it  fits,"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  almost  in- 
fantine with  surprise  and  pleasure. 

Clare  suffered  her  glove  to  be  drawTi  off.  The  ring  slid 
down  her  long  thin  finger,  and  settled  comfortably. 

"It  does!"  Mrs.  Doria  whispered.  To  find  a  wedding- 
ring  is  open  to  any  woman  ;  but  to  find  a  wedding-ring  that 
fits  may  well  cause  superstitious  emotions.  Moreover,  that 
it  should  be  found  while  walking  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  identical  youth  whom  a  mother  has  destined  for  her 
daughter,  gives  significance  to  the  gentle  perturbation  of 
ideas  consequent  on  such  a  hint  from  Fortune. 

"  It  really  fits !"  she  pursued.  "  Now  I  never  pay  any 
attention  to  the  nonsense  of  omens  and  that  kind  of  thing" 


THE  LAST  ACT  OF  A  COMEDY.  257 

(had  tlie  ring  been  a  horseshoe  Mrs.  Doria  would  have  picked 
it  up  and  dragged  it  obediently  home),  "but  this,  I  must 
say,  is  odd — to  find  a  ring  that  fits  ! — singular  !  It  never 
happened  to  me.  Sixpence  is  the  most  I  ever  discovered, 
and  I  have  it  now.  Mind  you  keep  it,  Clare — this  ring. 
And,"  she  laughed,  "  offer  it  to  Richard  when  he  comes  ;  say, 
you  think  he  must  have  dropped  it." 

The  dimple  in  Clare's  cheek  quivered. 

Mother  and  daughter  had  never  spoken  explicitly  of 
Richard.  Mrs.  Doria,  by  exquisite  management,  had  con- 
trived to  be  sure  that  on  one  side  there  would  be  no  obstacle 
to  her  project  of  general  happiness,  without,  as  she  thought, 
compromising  her  daughter's  feelings  unnecessarily.  It  could 
do  no  harm  to  an  obedient  young  girl  to  hear  that  there  was 
no  youth  in  the  world  like  a  certain  youth.  He  the  prince 
of  his  generation,  she  might  softly  consent,  when  requested, 
to  be  his  princess  ;  and  if  never  requested  (for  Mrs.  Doria 
envisaged  failure),  she  might  easily  transfer  her  softness  to 
squires  of  lower  degree.  Clare  had  always  been  blindly 
obedient  to  her  mother  (Adrian  called  them  Mi'S.  Doria 
Battledoria  and  the  fair  Shuttlecockiana),  and  her  mother 
accepted  in  this  blind  obedience  the  text  of  her  entire  cha- 
racter. It  is  difficult  for  those  vvho  think  very  eai;nestly  for 
their  children  to  know  when  their  children  are  thinking  on 
their  own  account.  The  exercise  of  their  volition  we  con- 
strue as  revolt.  Our  love  does  not  like  to  be  invalided  and 
deposed  from  its  command,  and  here  I  think  yonder  old 
thrush  on  the  lawn  who  has  just  kicked  the  last  of  her  lank 
offspring  out  of  the  nest  to  go  shift  for  itself,  much  the 
kinder  of  the  two,  though  sentimental  people  do  shrug  their 
shoulders  at  these  unsentimental  acts  of  the  ci-eatures  who 
never  wander  from  natui-e.  Now,  excess  of  obedience  is,  to 
one  who  manages  most  exquisitely,  as  bad  as  insurrection. 
Happily  Mrs.  Doria  saw  nothing  in  her  daughter's  manner 
Bave  a  want  of  iron.  Her  palloi',  her  lassitude,  the  tremulou.«» 
nerves  in  her  face,  exhibited  an  imperious  requirement  of  the 
minei'al. 

"  The  reason  why  men  and  women  are  mysterious  to  us, 
and  prove  disappointing,"  we  leai-n  from  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip,  "is,  that  wo  will  read  them  from  our  own  book;  just 
as  we  are  perplexed  by  reading  ourselves  from  theirs." 

Mrs.  Doria  read  htir  daiijj'litcr  from  her  own  ])ook,  and  she 


258  THE  ORDKAl,  OF  RICnARD  FEVERBL. 

was  pny ;  she  laii'-rlifd  with  Adrian  at  the  breakfast-table, 
and  mock-soriously  joined  in  his  jocose  assertion  that  Clare 
■\vjis  positivel}'  and.  by  all  hymemval  auspices  betrothed  to  the 
owner  of  that  rinp;',  be  he  who  he  may,  and  must,  whenever 
lie  should  choose  to  come  and  claim  her,  give  her  hand  to 
him  (for  everybody  agreed  the  owner  must  be  masculine,  as 
no  wunan  would  drop  a  wedding-ring),  and  follow  him 
whither  he  listed  all  the  world  over.  Amiable  giggling 
Forej  girls  called  Clare,  The  Betrothed.  Dark  man,  or 
fair  ?  was  mooted.  Adrian  threw  o2  the  first  strophe  of 
Clare's  fortune  in  burlesque  rhymes,  with  an  insinuating 
gypsy  twang.  Her  Aunt  Forey  warned  her  to  have  her 
dresses  in  readiness.  Her  Grandpapa  Forey  pretended  to 
grumble  at  bridal  presents  being  expected  from  grandpapas. 
This  one  smelt  orange-flower,  another  spoke  solemnly  of  an 
old  shoe.  The  finding  of  a  wedding-ring  was  celebi'ated 
through  all  the  palpitating  accessories  and  rosy  ceremonies 
involved  by  that  famous  instrument.  In  the  midst  of  the 
general  hilarity,  Clare  showed  her  deplorable  want  of  iron 
by  bui'sting  into  tears. 

Did  the  poor  mocked-at  heart  divine  what  might  be  then 
enacting?  Perhaps,  dimly,  as  we  say:  that  is,  without, 
eyes. 

At  an  altar  stand  two  fair  young  creatures,  ready  with 
their  oaths.  They  are  asked  to  fix  all  time  to  the  moment, 
and  they  do  so.  If  there  is  hesitation  at  the  immense  under- 
taking, it  is  but  maidenly.  She  conceives  as  little  mental 
doubt  of  the  sanity  of  the  act  as  he.  Over  them  hangs  a 
cool  young  curate  in  his  raiment  of  office.  Behind  are  two 
apparently  lucid  people,  distinguished  from  each  other  by 
Bex  and  age :  the  foremost  a  bunch  of  simmering  black 
patin  ;  under  her  shadow  a  cock-robin  in  the  dress  of  a  gen- 
tleman, big  joy  swelling  out  his  chest,  and  pert  satisfaction 
cocking  his  head.  These  be  they  who  stand  here  in  place  of 
parents  to  the  young  couple.  All  is  well.  The  service 
proceeds. 

Fii-mly  the  bridegroom  tells  forth  his  words.  This  hour 
of  the  complacent  giant  at  least  is  his,  and  that  he  means  to 
hold  him  bound  through  the  eternities,  men  may  hear. 
Clearly,  and  with  brave  modesty,  speaks  she  :  no  less  firmly, 
though  her  body  trembles  :  her  voice  just  vibrating  while  the 
tone  travels  on,  like  a  smitten  vase. 


THE  LAST  ACT  OP  A  COMEDY.  259 

Time  hears  sentence  pronounced  on  him :  the  frail  hands 
bind  his  huge  limbs  and  lock  the  chains.  He  is  used  to  it : 
he  lets  them  do  as  they  will. 

Then  comes  that  period  when  they  are  to  give  their  troth 
to  each  other.  The  Man  with  his  right  hand  takes  the 
Woman  by  her  right  hand  :  the  Woman  with  her  right  hand 
takes  the  Man  by  his  right  hand. — Devils  dare  not  laugh  at 
whom  Angels  crowd  to  contemplate. 

Their  hands  are  joined :  their  blood  flows  as  one  stream 
Adam  and  fair  Eve  front  the  generations.  Are  they  not 
lovely  ?     Purer  fountains  of  life  were  never  in  two  bosoms. 

And  then  they  loose  their  hands,  and  the  cool  curate  doth 
bid  the  Man  to  put  a  ring  on  the  Woman's  fourth  finger, 
counting  thumb.  And  the  Man  thrusts  his  hand  into  one 
pocket,  and  into  another,  forward  and  back  many  times : 
into  all  his  pockets.  He  remembers  that  he  felt  for  it,  and 
felt  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  when  in  the  Gardens.  And 
his  hand  comes  forth  empty.  And  the  Man  is  ghastly  to 
look  at ! 

Yet,  though  Angels  smile,  shall  not  Devils  laugh !  The 
curate  deliberates.  The  black  satin  bunch  ceases  to  simmer. 
He  in  her  shadow  changes  fi-om  a  beaming  cock-robin  to  an 
inquisitive  sparrow.  Eyes  multiply  questions  :  lips  have  no 
reply.  Time  ominously  shakes  his  chain,  and  in  the  pause  a 
sound  of  mockery  stings  their  ears. 

Think  ye  a  hero  one  to  be  defeated  in  his  first  battle? 
Look  at  the  clock  !  there  are  but  seven  minutes  to  the  stroke 
of  the  celibate  hours  :  the  veteran  is  surely  lifting  his  two 
hands  to  deliver  fire,  and  his  shot  will  sunder  them  in  twain 
so  nearly  united.  All  the  jewellers  of  London  speeding  down 
with  sacks  full  of  the  nuptual  circlet  cannot  save  them ! 

The  battle  must  be  won  on  the  field,  and  what  does  the 
hero  now  ?  It  is  an  inspiration !  For  who  else  would  dream 
of  such  a  reserve  in  the  rear  ?  None  see  what  he  does  ;  only 
that  the  black-satin  bunch  is  remonstratingly  agitated, 
stormily  shaken,  and  subdued :  and  as  though  the  menacing 
cloud  had  opened,  and  dropped  the  dear  token  from  the  skies 
at  his  demand,  he  produces  the  symbol  of  their  consent,  and 
the  service  proceeds  :  "With  this  ring  I  thee  wed." 

They  are  prayed  over  and  blest.  For  good,  or  for  ill,  this 
deed  is  done.  The  names  are  registered  ;  fees  fly  right  and 
left :  they  thank,  and  salute,  the  curate,  whose  ollicial  coolnoisa 

s  2 


260  TnS  ORDEAL  OF  HlCnARP  FEVEREL. 

molts  into  a  Bniilo  of  monastic  gallantry:  the  bcarllc  on  the 
str]>s  wavt>s  otT  a  f::ai)inc:  world  as  they  issue  forth  :  bride- 
gnH)in  and  hridosnian  recklessly  scatter  gold  on  him  :  carriage- 
doors  are  banged  to :  the  coachmen  drive  off,  and  the  scene 
rloscs,  everybody  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST, 


Ant)  the  next  moment  the  bride  is  weeping  as  if  she  wonld 
dissolve  to  one  of  Dian's  Virgin  Fountains  from  the  clasp  of 
the  Sun-God.  She  has  noblj^  preserved  the  mask  imposed  by 
comedies,  till  the  curtain  has  fallen,  and  now  she  weeps, 
streams  with  tears.  Have  patience,  O  impetuous  young  man  ! 
It  is  your  profession  to  be  a  hero.  This  poor  heart  is  new  to 
it,  and  her  duties  involve  such  wild  acts,  such  brigandage, 
Buch  terrors  and  tasks,  she  is  quite  unnerved.  She  did  you 
honour  till  now.  Bear  with  her  now.  She  does  not  cry  the 
cry  of  ordinary  maidens  in  like  cases.  While  the  struggle 
went  on  her  tender  face  was  brave ;  but,  alas  !  Omens  are 
against  her  :  she  holds  an  ever-present  di-eadful  one  on  that 
fatal  fourth  finger  of  hers,  which  has  coiled  itself  round  her 
dream  of  delight,  and  takes  her  in  its  clutch  like  a  hoi-rid 
serpent.  And  yet  she  must  love  it.  She  dares  not  part  from 
it.  She  must  love  and  hug  it,  and  feed  on  its  strange  honey, 
and  all  the  bliss  it  gives  her  casts  all  the  deeper  shadow  on 
what  is  to  come. 

Say.  Is  it  not  enough  to  cause  feminine  apprehension  for 
a  woman  to  be  married  in  another  woman's  ring  ? 

You  an;  amazons,  ladies,  at  Saragossa,  and  a  thousand 
citadels — wherever  there  is  strife,  and  Time  is  to  be  taken  by 
the  throat.  Then  shall  few  men  match  your  sublime  fury. 
But  what  if  you  see  a  vulture,  visible  only  to  yourselves, 
hovering  over  the  house  you  are  gaily  led  by  the  torch  to 
inhabit  r*     Will  you  not  crouch  and  be  cowards  ? 

As  for  the  hero,  in  the  hour  of  victory  he  pays  no  heed  to 
omens.  He  does  his  best  to  win  his  darling  to  confidence  by 
caresses.    Is  she  not  his  ?   Is  he  not  hers  't    And  why,  when 


CTELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST.  261 

tlie  battle  is  ■won,  does  she  weep  ?  Does  she  regret  what  she 
has  done  ? 

Oh,  never !  never  !  her  soft  blue  eyes  assure  him,  steadfast 
love  seen  swimming-  on  clear  depths  of  faith  in  them,  through 
the  shower. 

He  is  silenced  by  her  exceeding  beauty,  and  sits  perplexed 
waiting  for  the  shower  to  pass. 

Alone  with  Mrs.  Berry,  in  her  bedroom,  Lucy  gave  tongue 
to  her  distress,  and  a  second  character  in  the  comedy  changed 
her  face. 

0  ]\Irs.  Berry !  Mrs.  Berry !  what  has  happened !  what 
has  happened !  " 

"  My  darlin'  child  !  "  The  bridal  Berry  gazed  at  the  finger 
of  doleful  joy.  "  I'd  forgot  all  about  it !  And  that's  what've 
made  me  feel  so  queer  ever  since,  then  !  I've  been  seemin' 
as  if  I  wasn't  myself  somehow,  without  my  ring.  Dear ! 
dear !  what  a  wilful  young  gentleman  !  "We  ain't  a  match 
for  men  in  that  state — Lord  help  us  !  " 

Mrs.  Berry  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair:  Lucy  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mrs.  Berry  ?  Is  it  not  ter- 
rible ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  should  'a  liked  it  myself,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Berry  candidly  responded. 

"  Oh !  why,  why,  why  did  it  happen  !  "  the  young  bride 
bent  to  a  flood  of  fresh  tears,  murmuring  that  she  felt 
already  old — forsaken. 

"  Haven't  you  got  a  comfort  in  your  religion  for  all  acci- 
dents ?  "  Mrs.  Berry  inquired. 

"  None  for  this.  I  know  it's  wrong  to  cry  when  I  am  so 
happy.     I  hope  he  will  forgive  me." 

Mrs.  BeiTy  vowed  her  bride  was  the  sweetest,  softest, 
beautifulest  thing  in  life. 

"  I'll  cry  no  more,"  said  Lucy.  "  Leave  me,  Mrs.  Berry, 
and  come  back  when  I  ring." 

She  drew  forth  a  little  silver  cross,  and  fell  upon  her  knees 
to  the  bed.     Mrs.  Berry  left  the  room  tiptoe. 

When  she  was  called  to  return,  Lucy  was  calm  and  tear- 
less, and  smiled  kindly  to  her. 

"  It's  over  now,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Berry  sedately  looked  for  her  ring  to  follow. 

"  He  does  not  wish  me  to  go  in  to  the  breakfast  yoa  have 


f  61  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

prepared,  !^^r8.  Bcrrj.  I  begged  to  be  excused.  I  cannot 
eat." 

Mi*s.  BeiTy  very  much  deplored  it,  as  she  had  laid  out  a 
supi-rior  nnjitial  breakfast,  but  with  her  mind  on  her  ring 
she  iiiuKled  assentingly. 

"  Wo  shall  not  have  much  packing  to  do,  Mrs.  Berry." 

"  Xo,  my  dear.     It's  ])retty  well  all  done." 

"  We  are  going  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  Mrs.  Berry." 

*'  And  a  very  suitable  spot  ye've  chose,  my  dear!  " 

"  He  loves  the  sea.     He  wishes  to  be  near  it." 

"  Don't  ye  cross  to-night,  if  it's  anyways  rough,  my  dear. 
It  isn't  adviseable."  Mrs.  Beriy  sank  her  voice  to  say, 
"  Don't  ye  be  soft  and  give  way  to  him  there,  or  you'll  both 
be  repenting  it." 

Lucy  had  only  been  staving  off  the  unpleasantness  she  had 
to  speak.  She  saw  Mrs.  Berry's  eyes  pursuing  her  ring,  and 
screwed  up  her  couiage  at  last. 

*'  Mi-s.  Berry." 

*'  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  Mrs.  BeiTy,  you  shall  have  another  ring." 

"Another,  m^  dear?"  Berry  did  not  comprehend. 
"  One's  quite  enough  for  •^-he  objeck,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  mean,"  Lucy  touched  her  foui-th  finger,"  I  cannot  part 
with  this."     She  looked  straight  at  Mrs.  Berry. 

That  bewildered  creature  gazed  at  her,  and  at  the  ring, 
till  she  had  thoroughly  exhausted  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
and  then  exclaimed,  hori'or-struck  :  "  Deary  me,  now  !  you 
don't  say  that  ?  You're  to  be  married  again  in  your  own 
religion." 

The  young  wife  repeated  :  "  I  can  never  part  with  it." 

"But,  my  dear!"  the  wretched  Berry  wrung  her  hands, 
divided  between  compassion  and  a  sense  of  injury.  "  My 
dear !  "  she  kept  expostulating  like  a  mute. 

"  I  know  all  that  you  would  say,  Mrs.  Berry.  I  am  very 
grieved  to  pain  you.  It  is  mine  now,  and  must  be  mine.  I 
cannot  give  it  back." 

There  she  sat,  suddenly  developed  to  the  most  inflexible 
little  heroine  in  the  three  Kingdoms. 

From  her  first  perception  of  the  meaning  of  the  young 
bride's  words,  Mrs.  Beny,  a  shi-ewd  physiognomist,  knew 
that  her  case  was  hopeless,  unless  she  treated  her  as  she  her- 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST.  2G3 

self  had  been  treated,  and  seized  the  ring  by  force  of  arms ; 
and  that  she  had  not  heart  for. 

"  What !  "  she  gasped  faintly,  "  one's  own  lawful  wedding- 
ring  you  would'nt  give  hack  to  a  body  ?  ' 

"  Because  it  is  mine,  Mrs.  Beriy.  It  was  yours,  but  it  is 
mine  now.  You  shall  have  whatever  you  ask  for  but  that. 
Pi-ay  forgive  me  !     It  must  be  so." 

Mrs.  Berry  rocked  on  her  chair,  and  sounded  her  hands 
together.  It  amazed  her  that  this  soft  little  creature  could 
be  thus  firm.     She  tried  ai-gument. 

"  Don't  ye  know,  my  dear,  it's  the  fatalest  thing  you're 
inflictin'  upon  me,  reelly !  Don't  ye  know  that  bcin'  bereft 
of  one's  own  lawful  wedding-i-ing's  the  fatalest  thing  in  life, 
and  there's  no  prosperity  after  it !  For  what  stands  in 
place  o'  that,  when  that's  gone,  my  dear  ?  And  what  could 
ye  give  me  to  compensate  a  body  for  the  loss  o'  that  ?  Don't 
ye  know — Oh,  deary  me  !"  The  little  bride's  face  was  so  set 
that  poor  Berry  wailed  off  in  desjiair. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  know  it  all.  I  know  what  I 
do  to  you.  Dear,'  dear  Mrs.  BeiTy  !  forgive  me  !  If  I  parted 
with  my  ring  I  know  it  would  be  fatal." 

So  this  fair  young  freebooter  took  possession  of  her  argu- 
ment as  well  as  her  ring. 

Berry  racked  her  distracted  wits  for  a  further  appeal. 

"  But,  my  child,"  she  counterargued,  "  you  don't  under- 
stand. It  ain't  as  you  think.  It  ain't  a  hurt  to  you  now. 
Not  a  bit,  it  ain't.  It  makes  no  difference  now  !  Any  ring 
does  while  the  wearer's  a  maid.  And  your  Mr.  Richai'd  '11 
find  the  veiy  ring  he  intended  for  ye.  And,  of  course,  that's 
the  one  you'll  wear  as  his  wife.  It's  all  the  same  now,  my 
dear.  It's  no  shame  to  a  maid.  Now  do — now  do — there's 
a  darlin'  !" 

Wheedling  availed  as  little  as  argument. 

"  Mrs.  Beri-y,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  know  what  my — he  spoke  : 
'With  this  ring  I  thee  wed.'  It  was  with  this  ring.  Tbea 
how  could  it  be  with  another  ?" 

Berry  was  constrained  despondently  to  acknowledge  that 
was  logic. 

She  hit  upon  an  artful  conjecture: 

"Won't  it  be  uiilncky  you're  wcarin'  of  that  ring  which 
served  me  so  ?     Think  o'  that !" 

"  It  may  I  it  may  !  it  may  1"  cried  Lucy. 


264  THE  ORDEAT,  OF  KICnARD  FEVEREL. 

"  And  nrn't  you  rusliin'  into  it,  my  clear  ?" 

"^Ii-s.  lioi-ry,"  Lucy  said  again,  "  it  was  this  ring'.  It  can- 
not— it  never  can  be  another.  It  was  this.  What  it  brings 
me  I  must  bear.     I  shall  wear  it  till  I  die  !" 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  the  ill-used  woman  groaned. 
"  What  shall  I  tell  my  husband  when  he  come  back  to  me, 
and  see  I've  got  a  new  ring  waitin'  for  him  ?  Won't  that 
be  a  welcome  ?" 

Quoth  Lucy  :  "  How  can  he  know  it  is  not  the  same,  in  a 
plain  gold  ring  ?" 

"  You  never  see  so  keen  a  eyed  man  in  joolry  as  my 
Berry  !"  returned  his  solitary  spouse.  "  Not  know,  my  dear  ? 
Why,  any  one  w'ould  know  that  've  got  eyes  in  his  head. 
There's  as  much  diiference  in  wedding-rings  as  there's  in 
wedding  people !  Now,  do  pray  be  reasonable,  my  own 
sweet!" 

"  Pray  do  not  ask  me,"  pleads  Lucy. 

"  Pray  do  think  better  of  it,"  urges  Berry. 

"  Pray,  pray,  Mrs.  Berry  !"  pleads  Lucy. 

"  — And  not  leave  your  old  Berry  all  forlorn  just  when 
you're  so  happy !" 

"  Indeed  I  would  not,  you  dear,  kind  old  creature  !"  Lucy 
faltered. 

Mrs.  Berry  thought  she  had  her. 

"  Just  when  you're  going  to  be  the  happiest  wife  on  earth 
— all  you  want  yours  !"  she  pursued  the  tender  strain.  "  A 
handsome  young  gentleman !  Love  and  Fortune  smilin'  on 
ye !" 

Lucy  rose  up. 

"  Mrs.  Berry,"  she  said,  "  I  think  we  must  not  lose  time  in 
getting  ready,  or  he  will  be  impatient." 

Poor  Berry  surveyed  her  in  abject  wonder  from  the  edge 
of  her  chair.  Dignity  and  resolve  were  in  the  ductile  foi-m 
she  had  hitherto  folded  under  her  w4ng.  In  an  hour  the 
heroine  had  risen  to  the  measure  of  the  hero.  Without  being 
exactly  aware  what  creature  she  was  dealing  with,  Berry 
acknowledged  to  herself  it  was  not  one  of  the  common  run, 
and  sighed,  and  submitted. 

"  It's  like  a  divorce,  that  it  is  !"  she  sobbed. 

After  putting  the  corners  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  Ben-y 
bustled  humbly  about  the  packing.  Then  Lucy,  whose  heart 
was  full  to  her,   came   and  kissed  her,  and  Berry  bumped 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST.  2G5 

down  and  regularly  cried.  This  over,  she  had  recourse  to 
fatalism. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  to  be,  my  dear !  It's  my  punishment 
for  meddlin'  wi'  such  matters.  No,  I'm  not  sorry.  Bless  je 
both.  Who'd  'a  thought  you  was  so  wilful  ? — you  that  any 
one  might  have  taken  for  one  of  the  silly-softs  !  You're  a 
pair,  my  dear !  indeed  you  are  !  You  was  made  to  meet ! 
But  we  mustn't  show  him  we've  been  crying. — Men  don't  like 
it  when  they're  happy.  Let's  wash  our  faces  and  try  to  bear 
our  lot." 

So  saying  the  black-satin  bunch  careened  to  a  renewed 
deluge.  She  deserved  some  sympathy,  for  if  it  is  sad  to  bo 
married  in  another  person's  ring,  how  much  sadder  to  have 
one's  own  old  accustomed  lawful  ring  violently  torn  off  one's 
finger  and  eternally  severed  from  one !  But  where  you  have 
heroes  and  heroines,  these  terrible  complications  ensue. 

They  had  now  both  fought  their  battle  of  the  ring,  and 
with  equal  honour  and  success. 

In  the  chamber  of  banquet  Richard  was  giving  Ripton  his 
last  directions.  Though  it  was  a  private  wedding,  Mrs.  Berry 
had  prepared  a  sumptuous  breakfast.  Chickens  offered  their 
breasts :  pies  hinted  savoury  secrets  :  things  mystic,  in  a 
mash,  with  Gallic  appellatives,  jellies,  creams,  fruits,  strewed 
the  table :  as  a  tower  in  the  midst,  the  cake  colossal :  the 
priestly  vesture  of  its  nuptual  white  relieved  by  hymenajal 
splendours. 

Many  hours,  much  labour  and  anxiety  of  mind,  Mrs.  Berry 
had  expended  upon  this  breakfast,  and  why  ?  There  is  one 
who  conies  to  all  feasts  that  have  their  basis  in  Folly,  whom 
criminals  of  trained  instinct  are  careful  to  provide  ngainst : 
who  will  speak,  and  whose  hateful  voice  must  somehow  be 
silenced  while  the  feast  is  going  on.  This  personage  is  The 
Philosopher.  Mrs.  BeiTy  knew  him.  She  knew  that  he 
v/ould  come.  She  provided  against  him  in  the  manner  sho 
thought  most  efficacious :  that  is,  by  cheating  her  eyes  and 
intoxicating  her  conscience  with  the  due  and  proper  gloi-ies 
incident  to  weddings  where  fathers  dilate,  mothers  colla])so, 
and  marriage  settlements  are  flourished  on  high  by  the 
family  lawyer:  and  had  there  been  no  show  of  the  kind  to 
greet  her  on  her  return  from  the  church,  she  would,  and  sho 
foresaw  she  would,  have  stared  at  squalor  and  omi)tin(\s,s, 
and  rep<^nted  her  work.     Tho  Philosopher  would  have  laid 


2()fi  THE  ORPEAT,  OF  HirnARD  rKVEREL. 

hold  of  licr  by  tho  car,  and  called  her  bad  ramcs.  En- 
trenched beliiiid  a  breakfast-tablo  so  lei^itiiiiatoly  adorned, 
Mi's.  Bcny  defied  him.  In  tlie  presence  of  that  cake  ho 
dared  not  sjieak  above  a  whisper.  And  there  were  wines  to 
drown  him  in,  should  he  still  think  of  protesting  ;  fiery  wines, 
ftnd  cool :  claret  sent  purposely  by  the  bridegroom  for  the 
delectation  of  his  friend. 

For  one  good  hour,  therefore,  the  labour  of  many  hours 
kept  him  dumb.  Ripton  was  fortifying  himself  so  as  to 
forget  him  altogether,  and  the  world  as  well,  till  the  next 
morning.  Ripton  was  excited,  overdone  with  delight.  He 
had  already  finished  one  bottle,  and  listened,  pleasantly 
flushed,  to  his  emphatic  and  more  abstemious  chief.  He  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  listen,  and  to  di-ink.  The  hero  would 
not  allow  him  to  shout  Victory  !  or  hear  a  word  of  toasts ; 
and  as,  from  the  quantity  of  oil  poured  on  it,  his  eloquence 
was  becoming  a  natural  force  in  his  bosom,  the  poor  fellow 
was  afflicted  with  a  sort  of  elephantiasis  of  suppressed 
emotion.  At  times  he  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and  fell 
vacuously  into  it  again ;  or  he  chuckled  in  the  face  of 
weighty,  severely-worded  instructions ;  tapped  his  chest, 
stretched  his  arms,  yawned,  and  in  short  behaved  so  sin- 
gularly that  Richard  observed  it,  and  said :  "  On  my  soul,  I 
don't  think  you  know  a  word  I'm  saying." 

"  Every  word,  Ricky  !  "  Ripton  spirted  through  the  open- 
ing. "  I'm  going  down  to  your  governor,  and  tell  him  :  Sir 
Austin!  Here's  your  only  chance  of  being  a  happy  father — 
no,  no ! — Oh !  don't  you  fear  me,  Ricky  !  I  shall  talk  the 
old  gentleman  over.  I  feel  tremendous  !  1  feel,  upon  my 
honour,  Ricky,  I  feel  as  if  nobody  could  resis'  me  !  "  Ripton 
stamped  his  might  on  the  table.  "  I  shall  tell  him  the  whole 
affair  point-blank.  I  can  tell  you  that  if  it  comes  to  argu- 
ment 'tween  us,  I  can  lay  on  the  man  who'll  have  the  best  of 
it.  I  shall  tell  him  I  was  a  witness.  And  I  hope.  Sir 
Austin,  in  a  year's  time,  you'll  have  the  best  of  all,  sir ! — • 
jolly  'ittle  grandson ! "  Ripton's  head  went  roguishly  to 
right  and  left,  and  he  emptied  his  glass  at  a  draught. 

Richard  aiTested  his  resumption  of  speech,  and  he  con- 
tinued slowly  to  fizz  like  an  ill-corked  effervescence,  while 
his  chief  said : 

"  Look  here.  You  had  better  not  go  down  to-night.  Go 
down  the  first    thing  to-moiTOW,  by  the   six  o'clock  train. 


CELEBRATES  THE  BREAKFAST.  267 

Give  liim  my  letter.  Listen  to  me — give  him  my  letter,  and 
don't  speak  a  word  till  tie  speaks.  His  eyebrows  will  go  up 
and  down,  he  won't  say  much.  I  know  him.  If  he  asks  you 
about  her,  don't  be  a  fool,  but  say  what  you  think  of  her 

sensibly" 

No  cork  could  hold  in  Ripton  when  she  was  alluded  to. 
He  shouted  :  "  She's  an  angel !  " 

Richard  checked  him :  "  Speak  sensibly,  I  say — quietly. 
Yoa  can  say  how  gentle  and  good  she  is — my  fleur-de-luce ! 
And  say,  this  was  not  her  doing.  If  any  one's  to  blame, 
it's  I.  I  made  her  marry  me.  Then  go  to  Lady  Blandish,  if 
you  don't  find  her  at  the  house.  You  may  say  whatever  you 
please  to  her.  Give  her  my  letter,  and  tell  her  I  want  to 
hear  from  her  immediately.  She  has  seen  Lucy,  and  I  know 
what  she  thinks  of  her.  You  will  then  go  to  Farmer  Blaize. 
I  told  you  Lucy  happens  to  be  his  niece — she  has  not  lived 
long  there.  She  lived  with  her  Aunt  Desborough  in  France 
while  she  was  a  child,  and  can  hardly  be  called  a  relative  to 
the  farmer— there's  not  a  point  of  likeness  between  them. 
Poor  darling  !  she  never  knew  her  mother.  Go  to  Mr.  Blaize, 
and  tell  him.  You  will  treat  him  just  as  you  would  treat 
any  other  gentleman.  If  you  are  civil,  he  is  sure  to  be. 
And  if  he  abuses  me,  for  my  sake  and  hers  you  will  still 
treat  him  with  respect.  You  hear  ?  And  then  write  me  a 
full  account  of  all  that  has  been  said  and  done.  You  will 
have  my  address  the  day  after  to-morrow.  By  the  way, 
Tom  will  be  here  this  afternoon.  Write  out  for  him  where 
to  call  on  you  the  day  after  to-morrow,  in  case  you  have 
heard  anything  in  the  morning  you  think  I  ought  to  know 
at  once,  as  Tom  will  join  me  that  night.  Don't  mention  to 
anybody  about  ray  losing  the  ring,  Ripton.  I  wouldn't  have 
Adrian  get  hold  of  that  foi-  a  thousand  pounds.  How  on 
earth  I  came  to  lose  it !  How  well  she  bore  it.  Rip  !  How 
beautifully  she  behaved  !  " 

Ripton  again  shouted :  "  She's  an  angel !  "  He  endea- 
voured to  got  a  leap  beyond  the  angels,  but  being  of  tame 
imagination,  those  common{)]ace  hosts  had  to  stand  for 
what  he  felt.  Throwing  up  the  heels  oi  his  second  bottle, 
he  said — 

"  You  may  trust  your  friend,  Richard.  Yonr  oldest 
friend,  Ricky ! — Eh  ?  A  cool  head  and  a  heart  in  tlie  right 
place  !     A  man  who'd  want  to  drink  better  wine  than  tliis 


268  THE  ORDEAL  OP  TTCnARD  FEVEREL. 

—  hoM  hot'  not.  tlrink  any  't  all.  I  think  I  was,  horn  ?— 
markinc:  that  wc  know  wliat  wine  is.  Talking  of  old  Blai/e, 
ain't  it  odd  we  should  bo  drinking  cleret  'gcthcr,  just 
married  ?  I  mean,  wlion  you  come  to  think  of  it,  Ricky  ? 
It  strike  rae  's  odd.  But  as  for  your  thinking  there  '11  bo 
much  fuss,  you  know,  there  you're  wrong.  Let's  have 
a'  moi-e  clei-et." 

Richard  hospitably  opened  another  bottle  for  him,  and  sat 
knocking  his  linger  nails  on  his  teeth,  impatient  for  the 
bride,  while  Ripton  freely  flowed  forth.  In  spite  of  the 
innocnousness  of  claret,  his  words  were  displaying  an  oily 
tendency  to  run  into  one  another,  and  his  eyes  were  growing 
vivaciously  stupid. 

"  Strikes  me,  Richard,  every  fresh  bottle's  better  than  one 
before.  Well,  I  was  saying,  you  know,  I  shall  make  all 
right  with  your  father.  Oh  !  he  won't  stand  out  after  a  little 
talking.  And  mind  you,  Mr.  Ricky,  I  can  talk  !  I  ought  to 
have  gone  the  Bar,  you  know.  Clei^et !  cleret  I  keep  say- 
ing : — claret,  sir !  'Minds  me  of  Gravelkind.  You  may 
drink  as  much  as  ever  you  like,  and  it  never  'fects  you. 
Gentleman's  wine  !  Though  if  you  ask  me  point-blank 
which  I  p'fer,  why,  I'd  rather  go  the  Bar.  I'm  an  only  son, 
you  know,  and  a  mother  and  four  sisters,  and  I  must  do  as 
I'm  tole.  Ha!  ha!  that  Letty !  what  a  face  shell  make  when 
she  hears  of  it!  sil'  'ittle  thing! — ha!  ha! — I  do  think  this 
has  been  the  jollies'  day  I  ever  knew !  Behave,  sir  ?  She 
did  behave  most  beautiful !  I  hear  her  voice  now — like  that 
glass.  Tell  you  the  truth,  girls  don't  quite  take  to  me — not 
in  that  way,  you  know.  I  don't  know  how  to  talk  to  them 
unless  they  beijin,  and  look  all  right.  It  went  as  smooth, 
Ricky ! — but  such  a  chap.  You're  sure  to  do  it  if  you  say 
you  will.  Aha!  when  you  pulled  at  old  Mrs.  Berry  I  didn't 
know  what  was  up.  I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  drink  her 
health  ?  " 

"  Here's  to  Penelope !  "  said  Richard,  just  wetting  his 
mouth.  The  can"iage  was  at  the  door :  a  couple  of  dire 
organs,  each  grinding  the  same  tune,  and  a  vulture-scented 
itinerant  band  (fi-om  which  not  the  secretest  veiled  wedding 
can  ever  escape)  worked  harmoniously  without  in  the  pro- 
duction of  discord,  and  the  noise  acting  on  his  nervous  state 
made  him  begin  to  fume  and  send  in  messages  for  his  biide 
by  the  maid. 


CELEBEATES  THE  BREAKFAST.  20^ 

Ripton  drank  Penelope,  and  afterwards  had  an  idea  tbat 
Penelope  did  not  mean  Lucy.  He  tried  to  tell  Richard  that 
the  health  proposed  was  that  of  his  lovely  wife,  but  Richard 
had  no  ear  for  him,  and  let  him  mumble  on.  Ey  and  by  the 
lovely  wife  presented  herself  dressed  for  her  journey,  and 
smiling  from  stained  eyes. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  requested  to  drink  some  wine,  which  Rip- 
ton  poured  out  for  her,  enabling  Mrs.  Berry  thereby  to 
measure  his  condition.  Ripton's  expressive  bibulous  invita- 
tion was  :  "  Aha  !  Mrs.  Berry  ! " 

Penelope  bowed  and  bumped  her  duty  \p  them  all. 
Richard  and  Lucy  talked  apart.  Ripton  balanced  his  body 
against  the  back  of  his  chair.  A  notion  possessed  his  nod- 
ding head  that  it  devolved  upon  him  to  make  a  formal 
speech,  and  that  now  was  the  time.  If  ever  the  old  Dog 
was  to  enunciate  in  human  language  his  devoted  appi'ecia- 
tion  of  Beauty,  the  occasion  was  present.  But  how  was  he 
to  fashion  his  phrases  ?  Notwithstanding  the  state  he  was 
in,  his  sincere  homage  caused  him  to  be  critical  of  his  capa- 
bilities, and  then  his  brain  whirled ;  innumei-able  phantom 
forms  of  sentences  with  a  promise  of  glowing  periods,  offered 
their  heads  to  him,  and  immediately  cut  themselves  off  from 
all  consequence,  so  that  he  was  afraid  to  commence.  Speak- 
ing, moreover,  he  found  to  affect  his  balance.  It  became  a 
problem  whether  he  should  talk,  or  retain  his  perpendicular. 
His  latent  sense  of  propriety  counselled  him  not  to  risk  it, 
and  he  stood  mute,  looking  like  a  mask  of  ancient  comedy, 
beneath  which  general  embracing  took  place.  The  bride 
kissed  Mrs.  Berry,  Mrs.  Berry  kissed  the  bridegroom,  on  the 
plea  of  her  softness.  Ripton's  long  tight  smile  elaborated  aa 
the  mad  idea,  engendered  by  these  proceedings,  of  claiming 
certain  privileges  due  to  him  in  his  character  of  bridesman, 
flashed  across  him.  Some  one  noticed  that  the  cake  had  not 
been  cut,  and  his  attention  was  drawn  to  the  cake,  and  he 
fell  upon  it,  literally,  rising  sufficiently  ashamed  not  to  dare 
to  look  in  the  fair  bride's  face,  mucn  more  to  claim  a  privi- 
lege. Lucy,  however,  gave  him  her  hand,  with  a  musical 
"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Ripton,"  and  her  extreme  graciousness 
made  him  just  sensible  enough  to  sit  down  before  he  mur- 
mured his  fervent  hopes  for  her  happiness. 

"  I  shall  take  guod  care  of  him,"  .said  Mi-s.  Beriy,  focussing 
her  eyes  to  the  com])rehension  of  the  company. 


270  TnE  ORPKAL  OF  nirnARn  FEVEnn,. 

"  H'arcwoU,  renclopo!  "  cries  Richard.  "I  shall  tell  tiie 
police  everywhere  to  IddIc  out  for  your  lord." 

"Oh!  no  fear,  my  dears  !  hell  return.  Good-bye!  and 
Heaven  bless  ye  both  !  " 

Jieny  quavered,  touched  with  compunction  at  the  thoufrhts 
of  approaching  loneliness.  Ripton,  his  mouth  drawn  like  a 
bow  to  his  ears,  brought  up  the  rear  to  the  carriage,  receiv- 
ing a  fair  slap  on  the  cheek  from  an  old  shoe  precipitated  by 
Mi-s.  Berry's  enthusiastic  female  domestic. 

White  handkerchiefs  were  waved,  the  adieux  had  fallen  to 
signs  :  they  were  off.  Then  did  a  thought  of  such  urgency 
illumine  Mrs.  BeiTy,  that  she  telegi^aphed,  hand  in  air 
awakening  Ripton's  lungs,  for  the  coachman  to  stop,  and  ran 
back  to  the  house.  Richard  chafed  to  be  gone,  but  at  his 
bride's  interce.-^sion  he  consented  to  wait.  Presently  they 
beheld  the  old  black-satin  bunch  stream  through  the  street- 
door,  down  the  bit  of  garden,  and  up  the  astonished  street, 
halting,  panting,  capless  at  the  carriage  door,  a  book  in  her 
hand, — a  much-used,  dog-leaved,  steamy,  gi-easy  book,  which, 
at  the  same  time  calling  out  in  breathless  jerks,  "  There ! 
never  ye  mind  looks  !  I  ain't  got  a  new  one.  Read  it,  and 
don't  ye  forget  it !  "  she  discharged  into  Lucy's  lap,  and 
retreated  to  the  railings,  a  signal  for  the  coachman  to  drive 
away  for  good. 

How  Richard  laughed  at  the  Berry's  bridal  gift!  Lucy, 
too,  lost  the  omen  at  her  heart  as  she  glanced  at  the  title  of 
the  volume.  It  was  Dr.  Kitchener  on  Domestic  Cookery ! 
Mrs.  Berry's  beloved  private  copy,  with  the  wisdom  con- 
tained in  which  she  trusted  to  allure  back  to  home  and  its 
duties  the  wandering  Ulysses  of  Footmen. 


CHAPTER  XXXIT. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER  APPEARS  IN  PERSON. 

General  withdrawing  of  heads  from  street-windows, 
emisration  of  organs  and  bands,  and  a  relaxed  atmosphere 
in  the  circle  of  Mrs.  BeiTv's  abode,  proved  that  Dan  Cupid  had 
Teritably  flo-wn  to  suck  the  life  of  fresh  regions.  With  a  pen- 
s'vo  mind  she  grasped  Ripton's  arm  to  regulate  his  steps,  and 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  APPEARS  IN  PaVitON.  271 

rettimed  to  the  room  where  her  creditor  awaited  ter.  In 
the  interval  he  had  stormed  her  undefended  fortress,  the 
cake,  from  which  altitude  he  shook  a  dolorous  head  at  the 
guilty  woman.  She  smoothed  her  excited  apron,  sighing*. 
Let  no  one  imagine  that  she  regretted  her  complicity.  She 
was  ready  to  cry  torrents,  but  there  must  be  absolute  casti- 
gation  before  this  criminal  shall  conceive  the  sense  of  regret ; 
and  probably  then  she  will  cling  to  her  wickedness  the  mora 
■ — such  is  the  born  Pagan's  tenacity !  Mrs.  Berry  sighed, 
and  gave  him  back  his  shake  of  the  head.  O  you  wanton, 
improvident  creature  !  said  he.  0  you  very  wise  old  gentle- 
man !  said  she.  He  asked  her  the  thing  she  had  been  doing. 
She  enlightened  him  with  the  fatalist's  reply.  He  sounded 
a  bogey's  alarm  of  contingent  grave  results.  She  retreated 
to  the  entrenched  camp  of  the  fact  she  had  helped  to  make. 
"  It's  done  !"  she  exclaimed.  How  could  she  regret  what 
she  felt  comfort  to  know  was  done  ?  Convinced  that  events 
alone  could  stamp  a  mark  on  such  stubborn  flesh,  he  deter- 
mined to  wait  for  them,  and  crouched  silent  on  the  cake,  with 
one  finger  downwards  at  Ripton's  incision  there,  showing  a 
crumbling  chasm  and  gloomy  ricli  recess. 

The  eloquent  indication  was  understood.  *'  Dear  1  .  i- !" 
cried  Mrs.  Berry,  "  what  a  heap  o'  cake,  and  no  one  to  send 
it  to !" 

Ripton  had  resumed  his  seat  by  the  table  and  his  embrace 
of  the  claret.  Clear  ideas  of  satisfaction  had  left  him  and 
resolved  to  a  boiling  geyser  of  indistinguishable  transports. 
He  bubbled,  and  waggled,  and  nodded  amicably  to  nothing, 
and  successfully,  though  not  without  effort,  preserved  his 
uppermost  member  from  the  seductions  of  the  nymph, 
Gravitation,  who  was  on  the  look-out  for  his  whole  length 
shortly. 

"  Ha !  ha !"  he  shouted,  about  a  minute  after  Mrs.  Berry 
had  spoken,  and  almost  abandoned  himself  to  the  nymph  on 
the  spot.     Mrs.  Berry's  words  had  just  reached  his  wits. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh,  young  man  r"'  she  inquii'ed,  familiar 
and  motherly  on  account  of  his  condition. 

"  Ha  !  hah  !"  Ri])ton  laughed  louder,  and  caught  his  chest 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  his  nose  on  a  chicken.  "  That's 
goo'  !"  he  said,  recovering,  and  rocking  under  Mrs.  Berry's 
eyes.     "No  frien'  send  to?     I  like  that!" 

Mrs.  Beiry  searched  him  with  a  glance.     Perhaps  the  iuo- 


27S 


THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 


briate  youth  might  let  her  into  a  few  sweet  particaTarg  of 
this  interesting  business,  denied  to  her  by  the  wary  bride- 
gi-oom  and  his  obedient  bride,  she  thought.  She  wanted  tc 
have  the  stern  father  and  cruel  uncle  described  to  her ;  theii 
stature,  complexion,  and  annual  net  incomes  ;  also  their  places 
of  residence. 

"  I  did  not  say,  no  friend,"  she  remarked.  *'  I  said,  nc 
one ;  nieanin',  I  know  not  where  for  to  send  it  to." 

Riptons  response  to  this  was  :  "  You  cut  fair,  Mizz  Berry. 
There  won't  be  much  for  'em,  I  sh. .  .'sure  you.  Take  glass 
wine.  Cleret's  my  wine,  sh. .  .hcny's  yours.  Why 'n't  you 
put  Richard's  crez'  on  that  cake  ?  Mr.  Richard.s — ha  !  ha ! 
— best  fun  the  world  ! — why  'n't  you  put  a  Griffin  on  that 
cake,  Mizz  Berry  ?  Wheatsheaves  each  side.  Plenty  't 
means  and  plenty  te-te-'tis !  I'm  very  fond  of  heraldry,"  he 
added  with  a  reflective  visage,  and  fell  half  asleep  upon  the 
attachment. 

"  His  crest  ?"  Mrs.  Berry  winningly  waked  him. 

"  Oldest  bar'netcy  'n  England  !"  waved  Ripton. 

"  Yes  ?"  Mrs.  Berry  encouraged  him  on. 

"  Oldest  bar'netcy  'n  England  !  If  'tisn't  my  name's  not 
Rip'm  Thomps' — Es...quii'e.  Gentleman,  ma'm,  though  he 
is  arricled  the  law.  Take  glass  vsdne,  IM. .  .Mizz  Berry 
Cleret's  my  wine,  sh. ..herry's  yours.  This  bom  my  third 
bod'l.  What's  three  to  a  gentleman,  though  he  isn't  a 
bar'net's  son  with  fifty  th — thousand  a-year." 

"  Fifty  thousand  !  My  goodness  gracious  me  !"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  BeiTy  in  flattering  accents. 

"  Na  a  penny  less,  ma'm  !  And  I'm  his  oldts  friend.  Very 
near  ti'ansp. .  .orted  once,  drinking  cleret  'gether.  Nev'  '  fects 
you  !  Do  take  glass  wine.  Ha  !  ha !  you  think  he's  Richards. 
Nor  a  bir  of  it !  No  bar'net  Richards's  I  know.  We're 
'bliged  be  secret,  Mizz  BeiTy."  Ripton  looked  profoundodly 
secret.  "  Anything  if  't's  your  own  dedriment.  That's  law, 
^lizz  Beny.  And  't's  not  his  own  dedri-ment.  It's  his  de- 
laight— ha!  hah!" 

Here  gravitation  gave  Ripton  a  strong  pull.  He  just  saved 
himself,  and  went  on,  with  a  hideous  mimicry  of  the  God  of 
Scci-ecy:  "We're  oblige'  be  very  close.  And  she's  the  most 
lovely! — If  I  hear  man  say  thing  'gainst  her,  I. ..I  knock  'm 
down  !  I. ..I. ..I  knock  'm  down  !  She  is  such  a  pretty  crea- 
ture !  "  he  saner  in  falsetto. 


THE  PniLOSOPHER  APPEAES  IN  PERSON.  273 

"  You  needn't  for  to  cry  over  her,  young  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Berry;,  who  was  resolved  to  stop  his  claret  the  moment  she 
had  the  secret,  and  indulged  him  for  that  sole  object. 

Ripton  attempted  the  Grod  of  Secrecy  again,  but  his  lips 
"would  not  protrude  enough,  and  his  eyebrows  were  dis- 
affected. He  laughed  outright.  "  Wha'  's  it  matter  now  ?. 
They're  mai-ried,  sir.  Wha'  've  you  be  'shamed  of  ? — eh  ? 
I  can  talk  !  Here,  I  say,  Mizz  Berry  !  come — bumper ! 
La'ies  and  gen'lemen ! 

Filling  Mrs.  Berry's  glass,  and  his  own,  to  ovei'flowing, 
and  again  splitting  the  solitary  female  who  formed  his 
audience  into  two  sexes,  Ripton  commanded  silence,  and  pen  • 
dulously  swayed  over  Mrs.  Berry's  lap  in  total  forgetfulness 
of  what  he  had  ventured  on  his  legs  to  celebrate.  Aware 
that  they  did  duty  for  some  purpose,  he  shut  his  eyes  to 
meditate,  but  at  this  congenial  action  densest  oblivion  en- 
wrapped his  senses,  and  he  was  in  danger  of  coming  into 
Mrs.  Bea-ry's  lap  head  foremost ;  a  calamity  she  averted  by 
rising  likewise,  and  shaking  him  roughly,  which  brought  him 
back  to  visionary  consciousness,  when  he  sank  into  his 
chair,  and  mildly  asked  :  "  Wha'm  I  'bout  ?  That  you,  Mizz 
Berry?" 

A  little  asperity  was  in  her  voice  as  she  replied.  "You 
were  going  to  propose  a  toast.  And  then,  young  man,  you'd 
better  lie  down  a  bit,  and  cool  yourself.  Do  it  sitting,"  she 
gesticulated  peremptorily.  "  I'll  open  the  bottle  and  fill  the 
glass  for  you.  I  declare  you're  drinking  it  out  of  tumblers. 
It's  shocking!  You're  never  going  to  have  another  full 
tumbler  ?  " 

Ripton  chivalrously  insisted  on  a  bumper.  She  filled  it 
for  him,  under  mental  pi-otest,  for  conscience  pricked  her. 
Ripton  drained  his  bumper  in  emphatic  silence. 

"  Young  man,"  said  Mi'S.  Berry,  severely,  "  I  wanted  for 
to  drink  their  right  healths  by  their  right  names,  and  then 
go  about  my  day's  work,  and  I  do  hope  you  won't  keep  me.'" 

As  if  by  miracle,  Ripton  stood  bolt  upright  at  her  woi-ds. 

"  You  do  ?  "  he  said,  and  filling  another  bumper  he  with 
cheerfully  vinous  articulation  andglibncss  of  tongue  proposed 
the  health  of  Richard  and  Lucy  Feverel,  of  Raynham  Abbey  ! 
and  that  mankind  should  not  require  an  expeditious  example 
of  the  way  to  accept  the  inspiring  toast,  he  drained  his 
bumper  at    a    gulp.     It  finished  him.     The  farthing  rush- 

T 


274  THE  ORDKAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

lighfc  of  his  reason  loa|)t  and  expired.  Ho  stajxg'ered  to  ihe 
sofa,  and  there  stretclicd.  Kipton  was  far  from  homg  in 
practice. 

Some  minutes  subsequent  to  Ripton's  signalization  of  his 
devotion  to  the  bridal  pair,  Mrs.  Berry's  maid  entered  the 
room  to  say  that  a  tj^entleman  was  inquiring  below  after  the 
young  gentleman  wlio  had  departed,  and  found  her  mistre.ss 
with  a  tottering  wineglass  in  her  hand,  exhibiting  every 
symptom  of  unconsoled  hysterics.  Her  mouth  gaped,  as  if 
the  fell  creditor  had  her  by  the  swallow.  She  ejaculated  with 
horrible  exultation  that  she  had  been  and  done  it,  as  her 
disastrous  aspect  seemed  to  testify,  and  her  evident,  but  in- 
explicable, access  of  misery  induced  the  sympathetic  maid  to 
tender  those  caressing  words  that  were  all  Mrs.  Berry  wanted 
io  go  off  into  the  self-caressing  fit  without  delay  ;  and  she  had 
already  given  the  preluding  demoniac  ironic  outburst,  when 
the  maid  called  heaven  to  witness  that  the  gentleman  would 
hear  her  ;  upon  which  Mrs.  Berry  violently  controlled  her 
bosom,  and  ordered  that  he  should  be  shown  upstairs  in- 
stantly to  see  her  the  wretch  she  was.  She  repeated  the 
injunction. 

"  I'll  be  seen  as  I  am ! "  sci'eamed  Mrs.  Berry. 
The  maid  did  as  she  was  told,  and  Mrs.  Beny,  wishing 
first  to  see  herself  as  she  was,  mutely  accosted  the  looking- 
glass,  and  tried  to  look  a  very  little  better.  She  dropped  a 
shawl  on  Ripton  and  was  settled,  smoothing  her  agitation 
when  her  visitor  was  announced. 

The  gentleman  was  Adrian  Harley.  An  interview  with 
Tom  Bakewell  had  put  him  on  the  ti-ack,  and  now  a  momen- 
tary survey  of  the  table,  and  its  white- vestured  cake,  made 
him  whistle. 

Mrs.  Berry  plaintively  begged  him  to  do  her  the  favour  to 
be  seated. 

"  A  fine  morning,  ma'am,"  said  Adrian. 
"  It  have  been  !  "  Mrs.  Berry  answered,  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  window,  and  gulping  as  if  to  get  her  heart 
down  from  her  mouth. 

"  A  very  fine  Spring,"  pursued  Adrian,  calmly  anaf  oraizing 
her  countenance. 

Mrs.  Berry  smothered  an  adjective  to  "  weather "  on  a 
deep  sigh.  Her  wretchedness  was  palpable.  In  proportion 
to  it  Adrian  waxed  cheerful  and  brisk.     He  divined  enon;^L» 


THE  THILOSOPTTEU  APFEAKf;  IN  PERSON.  275 

of  the  business  to  see  that  there  was  some  strange  intelli- 
gence to  be  fished  out  of  the  cnljirit  who  sat  compicssin^ 
hysterics  before  him ;  and  as  ho  was  never  moi'e  in  his  cle- 
ment than  when  he  had  a  sinner,  and  a  repentant  prosti-ate 
abject  sinner,  in  hand,  his  aiiable  countenance  might  well 
deceive  poor  Berry. 

"  I  presume  these  are  Mr.  Thompson's  lodgings  ? "  he 
remarked,  with  a  look  at  the  table. 

Mrs.  Bei-ry's  head  and  the  whites  of  her  eyes  informed  him 
that  they  were  not  Mr.  Thompson's  lodgings. 

"  No  ?  "  said  Adi^ian,  and  threw  a  carelessly  inquisitive  eye 
about  him.     "  Mr.  Feverel  is  out,  I  suppose  ?  " 

A  convulsive  start  at  the  name,  and  two  coiToborating 
hands  dropped  on  her  knees,  foi-med  Mrs.  Berry's  reply. 

"  Mr.  Feverel's  man,"  continued  Adrian,  "  told  me  I 
should  be  certain  to  find  him  here.  I  thought  he  would 
be  with  his  friend,  Mr.  Thompson.  I'm  too  late,  I  perceive. 
Their  entertainment  is  over.  I  fancy  you  have  been  having 
a  party  of  them  here,  ma'am  ? — a  bachelor's  breakfast !  " 

In  the  presence  of  thnt  cake  this  observation  seemed  to 
mask  an  irony  so  shrev  d  that  Mrs.  Berry  could  barely  con- 
tain herself.  She  felt  :  he  must  speak.  Making  her  face  as 
deplorably  propitiating  as  she  could,  she  began: 

"  Sir,  may  I  beg  for  to  know  your  name  r*  " 

Mr.  Harley  accorded  her  request. 

Groaning  in  the  clutch  of  a  ])itiless  truth,  she  continued : 

"  And  you  are  Mr.  Harley,  that  was — oh  !  and  you've  come 
for  Mr.  ?  " 

Mr.  Richard  Feverel  was  the  gentleman  Mr.  Harley  had 
come  for. 

"  Oh !  and  it's  no  mistake,  and  he's  of  Raynham  Abbey  r  " 
Mrs.  Berry  inquired. 

Adrian,  very  much  amused,  assured  her  that  he  was  born 
and  bred  there. 

"  His  father's  Sir  Austin  ?  "  wailed  the  black-satin  bunch 
from  behind  her  handkerchief. 

Adrian  verified  Richard's  descent. 

"  Oh,  then,  what  have  I  been  and  done !  "  she  cried,  and 
stared  blankly  at  her  visitor.  "  I  been  and  married  my 
baby!  I  been  and  man-iod  the  bread  out  of  my  own  mouth  ! 
O  Mr.  TTai'ley !  Mr.  Harley !  I  knew  you  when  you  was  a 
boy  that  big,  and  wore  jackets  ;  and  all  of  you.     And  it's  my 


276  THE  OKPEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

softness  thkt's  my  ruin,  for  I  never  can  resist  a  man's  aslcinj'. 
Look  at  that  cake,  ^Mr.  Harley  !  " 

Adrian  followed  her  dii'ections  quite  coolly.  "  Wedding- 
cake,  ma'am  1  "  he  said. 

"  l?iide-cake  it  is,  Mr.  Harley  !  " 

"  Did  you  make  it  your.self,  ma'am  ?  " 

Tlie  quiet  ease  of  the  question  overwhelmed  Mrs.  Berry, 
and  upset  that  train  of  S3-nibolic  representations  by  which 
she  was  seeking  to  make  him  guess  the  catastrophe  and 
spare  her  the  fm-nace  of  confession. 

"  I  did  not  make  it  myself,  Mr.  Harley,"  she  replied. 
"  It's  a  bought  cake,  and  I'm  a  lost  woman.  Little  I 
di-eamed  when  I  had  him  in  my  arms  a  baby  that  I  should 
some  day  be  marrying  him  out  of  my  own  house  1  I  little 
dreamed  that !  Oh,  why  did  he  come  to  me !  Don't  you 
remember  his  old  nurse,  when  he  was  a  baby  in  arras,  that 
went  away  so  sudden,  and  no  fault  of  hers,  Mr.  Harley ! 
The  very  momin'  after  the  night  you  got  into  Mr.  Benson's 
cellar,  and  got  so  tipsy  on  his  Madeary — I  remember  it  as 
clear  as  yesterday  ! — and  Mr.  Benson  was  that  angry  he 
threated  to  use  the  Avliip  to  you,  and  I  helped  put  you  to 
bed.     I'm  that  very  woman." 

Adrian  smiled  placidly  at  these  reminiscences  of  his  gxiile- 
less  youthful  life. 

"  Well,  maam  !  well  ?  "  he  said.  He  would  bring  her  to 
the  furnace. 

"  Won't  you  see  it  all,  kind  sir  ?  "  Mrs.  Berry  appealed  to 
him  in  pathetic  dumb  show. 

Doubtless  by  this  time  Adrian  did  see  it  all,  and  was 
mentally  cursing  at  Folly,  and  reckoning  the  immediate  con- 
sequences, but  he  looked  uninstructed,  his  peculiar  dimple- 
smile  was  undisturbed,  his  comfortable  full-bodied  posture 
was  the  same.     "  Well,  ma'am  ?  "  he  spun-ed  her  on. 

Mrs.  Berry  burst  forth :  "  It  were  done  this  mornin',  Mr. 
Harley,  in  the  church,  at  half-past  e-leven  of  the  clock,  or 
twenty  to,  by  licence ;  "  adding  from  the  bottom  of  her  voice, 
"  and  I've  never  a  ring  to  show  for  it !  " 

Adrian  was  now  obliged  to  com])rehend  a  case  of  matri- 
mony. "  Oh !  "  he  said,  like  one  who  is  as  hard  as  facts, 
and  as  little  to  be  moved  :  "  Somebody  was  married  this 
morning ;   was  it  Mr.  Thompson,  or  Mr.  Feverel  ?  " 

Mrs.  Berry  shuffled  up  to  Ripton,  and  removed  the  shawl 


THE  PSILOSOPHER  APPEARS  IN  PERSON.  277 

from  him,  saying :  "  Do  lie  look  like  a  new  manned  bride- 
gi-oom,  Mr.  Hai-ley  ?  " 

Adrian  inspected  the  oblivious  Ripton  with  philosophic 
gravity. 

"  This  young  gentleman  was  at  church  this  morning  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh !  he  were  quite  reasonable  and  proper  then,"  Mrs. 
Berry  begged  him  to  understand. 

"  Of  course,  ma'am."  Adi'ian  lifted  and  let  fall  the  stupid 
inanimate  limbs  of  the  gone  wretch,  puckering  his  mouth 
queerly.  "  You  were  all  reasonable  and  pix>per,  ma'am. 
The  principal  male  performer,  then,  is  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Feverel  ?  He  was  married  by  you,  this  morning,  by  license, 
at  your  parish  church,  and  came  here,  and  ate  a  hearty 
breakfast,  and  left  intoxicated." 

Mrs.  Berry  flew  out.  "  He  never  drink  a  drop,  sir.  A 
more  moderate  young  gentleman  you  never  see.  Oh  !  don't, 
ye  think  that  now,  Mr.  Harley.  He  was  as  upright  and 
master  of  his  mind  as  you  be." 

"  Ay !  "  the  wise  youth  nodded  thanks  to  her  for  the  com- 
parison, "  I  mean  the  other  form  of  intoxication." 

Mrs.  Berry  sighed.     She  could  say  nothing  on  that  score. 

Adrian  desired  her  to  sit  down,  and  compose  herself,  and 
tell  him  circumstantially  what  had  been  done. 

She  obeyed,  in  utter  perplexity  at  his  perfectly  composed 
demeanour. 

Mrs.  Berry,  as  her  recital  declared,  was  no  other  than 
that  identical  woman  who  once  in  old  days  had  dared  to 
behold  the  baronet  behind  his  mask,  and  had  ever  since 
lived  in  exile  from  the  Raynham  world  on  a  little  pension 
regularly  paid  to  her  as  an  indemnity.  She  was  that 
woman,  and  the  thought  of  it  made  her  almost  accuse  Pi-ovi- 
dence  for  the  betraying  excess  of  softness  it  had  endowed 
her  with.  How  was  she  to  recognize  her  baby  grown  a 
man  ?  He  came  in  a  feigned  name ;  not  a  woi-d  of  tlio 
family  was  mentioned.  He  came  like  an  ordinary  moi'tal, 
though  she  felt  something  more  than  ordinary  towanls  him 
— she  knew  she  did.  Ho  came  bringing  a  beaiitil'ul  young 
lady,  and  on  what  grounds  could  she  turn  her  back  on  tli(!iii  ? 
Why,  seeing  that  all  was  chaste  and  legal,  why  s/umld  slm 
interfere  to  make  them  unhajj^jy — so  few  the  chances  of  liujv 


278  THE  OKDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

piness  in  tin's  world  !  Mrs.  Berry  related  the  seizure  of  her 
rincf. 

"  One  wrench,"  said  the  sobbing  culprit,  "  one  wrench, 
and  my  ring  went  off  like  my  Berry  !  " 

She  had  no  suspicions,  and  she  had  therefore  never 
thought  of  looking  at  the  signatures  in  the  vestry-book. 

"  And  it's  fort'nate  I  didn't !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  for  out  1 
should  'a  shrieked  there  and  then,  never  mind  where's  the 
spot,  to  thir':  I  been  and  married  my  own  baby  unbeknown. 
Not  till  this  Mr.  Thompson  pi-oposed  their  healths  ti])sy  by 
their  right  names  did  I  think — Feverel !  Ra}Tiham  Abbey  ! 
Oh  !  then  I  had  been  and  married  my  baby  !  and  so  you 
found  me,  Mr.  Harley,  and  I  daresay  I  looked  it." 

"  You  looked  as  if  you  were  suffering  from  a  premature 
indigestion  of  bride-cake,  ma'am,"  said  Adrian.  "  I  dare 
Bay  you  were  exceedingly  sorry  for  what  you  had  done." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  dolorously  moaned  Berry,  "  I  Avere,  and 
am." 

"  And  would  do  your  best  to  rectify  the  mischief — eh, 
ma'am  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  and  indeed,  sir,  I  would !  "  she  protested 
Bolemnly. 

" — As,  of  course,  you  should — knowing  the  family. 
Where  may  these  lunatics  have  gone  to  spend  the  Moon  ?  " 

Mrs.  Berry  swimmingly  replied :  "  To  the  Isle  o' . 

I  don't  know,  indeed,  sir  !  "  she  ^  napped  the  indication  short, 
and  jumped  out  of  the  pit  she  had  fallen  into.  Repentant 
as  she  might  be,  those  dears  should  not  be  pursued  and 
cruelly  balked  of  their  young  bliss !  To-morrow,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Harley :  not  to  day  !  " 

"  A  pleasant  spot,"  Adrian  observed,  smiling  at  his  easy 
prey. 

By  a  measurement  of  dates  he  discovered  that  the  bride- 
groom had  brought  his  bride  to  the  house  on  the  day  he  had 
quitted  Raynham,  and  this  was  enough  to  satisfy  Adrian's 
mind  that  there  had  been  concoction  and  chicanery.  Chaiice, 
probably,  had  brought  him  to  the  old  woman  :  chance  cer- 
tainly had  not  brought  him  to  the  young  one. 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  petitions 
for  his  favourable  offices  %vith  Sir  Austin  in  behalf  of  her 
little  pension,  and  the  bridal  pair,  "  I  Avill  tell  him  you  were 
only  a  blind  agent  in  the  affair,  being  naturally  soft,  and 


THE  PHILOSOPHEK  ArPEAP.S  IN  PERSON.  279 

fcliat  you  trust  he  will  bless  the  consummation.  He  will  be 
in  town  to-morrow  morning  ;  but  one  of  you  two  mast  see 
him  to-night.  An  emetic  kindly  administered  will  set  our 
friend  here  on  his  legs.  A  bath,  and  a  clean  shirt,  and  he 
miglit  go.  I  don't  see  Avhy  your  name  shoiild  appear  at  all. 
Brush  him  up,  and  send  him  to  Bellingham  by  the  seven 
o'clock  train.  He  will  find  his  way  to  Raynham  ;  he  knows 
the  neighbourhood  in  the  dark.  Let  him  go  and  state  the 
case.     Remember,  one  of  you  must  go." 

With  this  fair  prospect  of  leaving  a  choice  of  a  perdition 
between  the  couple  of  unfortunates,  for  them  to  fight  and 
lose  all  their  virtues  over,  Adrian  said,  "  Good  morning." 

Mrs.  Berry  touchingly  arrested  him.  "  You  won't  refuse 
a  piece  of  his  cake,  Mr.  Harley  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  ma'am."  Adrian  turned  to  the  cake  with 
alacrity.  "  I  shall  claim  a  very  large  piece.  Richard  has  a 
great  many  friends  who  will  rejoice  to  eat  his  wedding-cake. 
Cut  me  a  fair  quarter,  Mrs.  Berry.  Put  it  in  paper,  if  you 
please.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  carry  it  to  them,  and  appor- 
tion it  equitably  according  to  their  several  degi-ees  of 
relationship." 

Mrs.  Berry  cut  the  cake.  Somehow,  as  she  sliced  through 
it,  the  sweetness  and  hapless  innocence  of  the  bride  was  pre- 
sented to  her,  and  she  launched  into  eulogies  of  Liicy,  and 
cleai'ly  showed  how  little  she  regi-ettcd  her  conduct.  She 
vowed  that  they  seemed  made  for  each  other  ;  that  both  Avere 
beautiful ;  both  had  spirit ;  both  were  innocent ;  and  to  ])art 
them,  or  make  them  unhappy,  would  be,  Mrs.  Berry  wrought 
herself  to  cry  aloud,  oh,  siich  a  pity  ! 

Adrian  listened  to  it  as  tlie  expression  of  a  matter-of-fact 
opinion.  He  took  the  huge  quarter  of  cake,  nodded  multitu- 
dinous promises,  and  left  Mrs.  Berry  to  bless  his  good  heart. 

"  So  dies  the  System ! "  was  Adrian's  comment  in  the 
street.  "  And  now  let  prophets  roar !  He  dies  respectably 
in  a  marriage-bed,  which  is  more  than  I  should  have  foretohi 
of  the  monster.  Meantime,"  he  gave  the  cake  a  dramatic 
tap,  "  I'll  go  sow  nightmares." 


280  THE  ORDEAL  OP  EICHARD  FEVEUEL. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

PROCESSION    OF   THE    CAKE. 

Apkian  really  bore  the  news  he  had  heard  with  creditable 
disintei-cstedncps,  and  admirable  repression  of  anything 
beneath  the  dii^nity  of  a  philosopher.  When  one  has 
attained  that  felicitous  point  of  wisdom  from  which  one  sees 
all  mankind  to  be  fools,  the  diminutive  objects  may  make 
what  new  moves  they  please,  one  does  not  marvel  at  them: 
their  sedatcness  is  as  comical  as  their  frolic,  and  their 
frenzies  more  comical  still.  On  this  iT\tellectual  eminence 
the  wise  youth  had  built  his  castle,  and  he  had  lived  in  it 
from  an  early  period.  Astonishment  never  shook  the  founda- 
tions, nor  did  envy  of  greater  heights  tempt  him  to  relin- 
quish the  secui'ity  of  his  stronsfhold,  for  he  saw  none, 
Jug-glers  he  saw  running  up  ladders  that  overtopped  him, 
and  air-balloons  scaling  the  empyi-ean ;  but  the  foimer  came 
precipitately  down  again,  and  the  latter  were  at  the  mercy  of 
the  winds  ;  while  he  remained  ti-anquil  on  his  solid  unambi- 
tious ground,  fitting  his  moralit}''  to  the  laws,  his  conscience 
to  his  morality,  his  comfort  to  his  conscience.  Not  tliat 
voluntarily  he  cut  himself  off  from  his  fellows:  on  the  con- 
trary, his  sole  amusement  was  their  society.  Alone  he  was 
rather  dull,  as  a  man  who  beholds  but  one  thing  must  natur- 
ally be.  Study  of  the  animated  varieties  of  that  one  thing 
excited  him  sufSciently  to  think  life  a  pleasant  play ;  and 
the  faculties  he  had  forfeited  to  hold  his  elevated  position 
he  could  serenely  enjoy  by  contemplation  of  them  in  others. 
Thus  : — wonder  at  blaster  Richard's  madness  :  though  he 
himself  did  not  experience  it,  he  was  eagei-  to  mark  the  effect 
on  his  beloved  relatives.  As  he  carried  along  his  vindictive 
hunch  of  cake,  he  shaped  out  their  diiferent  attitudes  of 
amaze,  bewilderment,  horror;  passing  by  some  personal 
chagrin  in  the  pi-osjject.  For  his  patron  had  projected  a 
journey,  commencing  with  Paris,  culminating  on  the  Alps, 
and  lapsing  in  Rome  :  a  delightful  journey  to  show  Kichai-d 
the  highways  of  History  and  tear  him  from  the  risk  of 
further  ignoble  fascinations,  that  his  spirit  might  be  alto- 
gether bathed  in  freshness  and  revived.  This  had  been 
planned  during  Richards  absence  to  surjjrise  him. 


PROCESSION  OF  THE  CAKE.  281 

Now  the  dream  of  travel  was  to  Adrian  what  the  love  of 
woman  is  to  the  race  of  young  men.  It  supplanted  that 
foolishness.  It  was  his  Romance,  as  we  say ;  that  buoyant 
anticipation  on  which  in  youth  we  ride  the  airs,  and  which, 
as  we  wax  older  and  too  heavy  for  our  atmosphere,  hardens 
to  the  Hobby,  which,  if  an  obstinate  animal,  is  a  safer  liorse, 
and  conducts  man  at  a  slower  pace  to  the  sexton.  Adrian 
had  never  ti-avelled.  He  was  aware  that  his  romance  was 
eai'thly  and  had  discomforts  only  to  be  evaded  by  the  one 
potent  talisman  possessed  by  his  patron.  His  Alp  would 
hardly  be  grand  to  him  without  an  obsequious  landlord  in 
the  foreground :  he  must  recline  on  Mammon's  imjierial 
cushions  in  order  to  moralize  becomingly  on  the  ancient 
world.  The  search  for  pleasure  at  the  expense  of  discom- 
fort, as  frantic  lovei'S  woo  their  mistresses  to  partake  the 
shelter  of  a  hut  and  batten  on  a  crust,  Adrian  deemed  the 
bitterness  of  beggarliness.  Let  his  sweet  mistress  be  given 
him  in  the  pomp  and  splendour  due  to  his  superior  emotions, 
or  not  at  all.  Consequently  the  wise  youth  had  long  nursed 
an  ineffectual  passion,  and  it  argued  a  great  nature  in  him 
that,  at  the  moment  when  his  wishes  were  to  be  crowned,  he 
should  look  with  such  slight  touches  of  spleen  at  the  gorge- 
ous composite  fabric  of  Parisian  cookery  and  Roman  auticjui- 
ties  crumbling  into  unsubstantial  mockery.  Assuredly  very 
few  even  of  the  philosophers  would  have  turned  away  un- 
complainingly to  meaner  delights  the  moment  after. 

Hippias  received  the  fii'st  portion  of  the  cake. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  window  in  his  hotel,  reading.  He 
had  fought  down  his  breakfast  with  more  than  usual  success, 
and  was  looking  forward  to  his  dinner  at  the  Foreys  with 
less  than  usual  timidity. 

"  Ah !  glad  you've  come,  Adrian,"  he  said,  and  expanded 
his  chest.  "  I  was  afraid  I  should  have  to  I'ide  down.  This 
is  kind  of  you.  We'll  walk  down  together  through  the  park. 
It's  absolutely  dangerous  to  walk  alone  in  these  streets.  My 
opinion  is,  that  orange-peel  lasts  all  through  the  year  now, 
and  will  till  legislation  puts  a  stop  to  it.  We  were  free 
from  that  nuisance  in  the  Summer — once;  but  now  every- 
body's stupid  inconsiderateness  has  multiplied  tenfold  the 
malignity  of  those  boys  who  broke  our  necks  in  the  \V^inter, 
and  there's  positively  no  relapse.  I  give  you  my  vvoi'd  I 
slipped  on  a  piece  of  orange-peel  yesterday  afternoon  in  Pic- 


2^2  rUT.  ORftFAT,  OF  nrnAUD  FF.VEnCL. 

iMilillv.  an<l  T  IliouLrlit  T  was  down — I  tlioug-lit  I  was  down! 
I  snvi'd  myself  bv  a  mii-aclc." 

Adrian  aniniadveited  on  evoiybody  very  sympathetically. 

"  Yon  have  an  appetite,  I  hope  P  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  I  shall  Sfot  one,  after  a  bit  of  a  walk,"  chirped 
Hipjiias.     "  Yes.     I  think  I  feel  hungi'y  now." 

"  Charmed  to  hear  it,"  said  Adrian,  and  bei^an  unpinning 
his  parcel  on  his  knees.  "  How  should  you  define  Folly  Y  " 
he  cheeked  the  process  to  inquii*e. 

"  Hm  !  "  Hippias  meditated;  he  always  prided  himself  on 
beinsf  oracular  when  such  questions  were  addi'cssed  to  him. 
"  I  think  I  should  define  it  to  be  a  slide." 

"  Very  good  definition.  In  other  words,  a  piece  of  orange- 
peel  ;  once  on  it,  your  li  fe  and  limbs  are  in  danger,  and  you 
are  saved  by  a  miracle.  You  must  present  that  to  the 
Pilgrim.  And  the  monument  of  folly,  what  would  that 
be?" 

Hippias  meditated  anew.  "All  the  human  race  on  one 
another's  shoulders."  He  chuckled  at  the  sweeping  sour- 
ness of  the  instance. 

"Very  good,"  Adrian  applauded,  "or  in  default  of  that, 
some  symbol  of  the  thing,  say ;  such  as  this  of  which  I  have 
here  brought  you  a  chip." 

Adrian  displayed  the  quarter  of  the  cake. 

"  This  is  the  monument  made  portable— eh  ?  " 

"  Cake !  "  cried  Hippias,  retreating  his  chair  with  inten.se 
disgust.  "  Well  !  you're  right  of  them  that  eat  it.  If  I— if 
I  don't  mistake,"  he  peered  at  it,  "  the  noxious  compo.sition 
bedizened  in  that  way  is  what  they  call  wedding-cake.  It's 
arrant  poison !  It's  destruction  to  the  stomach  !  Ugh  ! 
Who  is  it  you  want  to  kill  Y  What  are  you  carrying  sucli 
fetuff  about  for  ?  " 

Adrian  rang  the  bell  for  a  knife.  "  To  present  you  with 
your  due  and  proper  portion." 

"  Me  ?  "     Hippias's  face  became  venomous. 

"  Well,"  said  Adrian,  "you  will  have  friends  andrelativer, 
and  can't  be  saved  from  them,  not  even  by  miracle.  It  is  a 
habit  which  exhibits,  perhaps,  the  unconscious  inherent 
cynicism  of  the  human  mind,  for  people  who  consider  that 
they  have  reached  the  acme  of  mundane  felicity,  to  distribute 
this  token  of  esteem  to  their  friends,  with  the  object  pro- 
bably" (he  took  the  knife  from  a  waiter  and  went  to  the  table 


PEOCESSION  OF  THE  CAKE,  283 

to  slice  the  calce)  "  of  enabling  those  friends  (these  edifices 
recjuire  very  delicate  incision — each  particular  cniTant  and 
subtle  condiment  hang-s  to  its  neighbour — a  wedding-cake  is 
evidently  the  most  highly  civilized  of  cakes,  and  partakes  of 
the  evils  as  well  as  the  advantages  of  civilization  !) — I  was 
saying,  they  send  us  these  love-tokens,  no  doubt  (we  shall 
lr,ave  to  weigh  out  the  crumbs,  if  each  is  to  have  his  fair 
ehare)  that  we  may  the  better  estimate  (got  to  the  bottom 
at  last!)  their  state  of  bliss,  by  passing  some  hours  in  pur- 
gatory. This,  as  far  as  I  can  apportion  it  without  weights 
and  scales,  is  your  share,  my  uncle!" 

He  pushed  the  corner  of  the  table  bearing  the  cake  towards 
Hippias. 

"  Get  away !"  Hippias  vehemently  motioned,  and  started 
from  his  chair.  "  I'll  have  none  of  it,  I  tell  you  !  It's  death  ! 
It's  fifty  times  worse  than  that  beastly  compound  Christmas 
pudding  !  What  fool  has  been  doing  this,  then  ?  Who  dares 
send  me  cake  ?     Me  !     It's  an  insult." 

"  You  are  not  compelled  to  eat  any  before  dinner,"  said 
Adrian,  pointing  the  corner  of  the  table  after  him,  "but  your 
share  you  must  take,  and  appear  to  consume.  One  who  has 
done  so  much  to  bring  about  the  marriage  cannot  in  con- 
science refuse  his  allotment  of  the  fruits.  Maidens,  I  hear, 
first  cook  it  under  their  pillows,  and  extract  nuptial  dreams 
therefrom — said  to  be  of  a  lighter  class,  taken  that  way. 
It's  a  capital  cake,  and,  upon  my  honour,  you  have  helped 
to  make  it — you  have  indeed  !     So  here  it  is." 

The  table  again  went  at  Hippias.  He  ran  nimbly  round  it, 
and  flung  himself  on  a  sofa  exhausted,  crying :  "  There  !  .  .  . 
My  appetite's  gone  for  to-day  !" 

"  Then  shall  I  tell  Richard  that  you  won't  touch  a  morsel 
of  his  cake  ?"  said  Adrian,  leaning  on  his  two  hands  over  the 
table  and  looking  at  his  uncle. 

"  Richard  ?" 

"Yes,  your  nephew  :  my  cousin:  Richard!  Toiir  companion 
since  you've  been  in  town.  He's  mari-icd,  you  know.  Mar- 
ried this  morning  at  Kensington  parish  church,  by  licence, 
at  half-past  eleven  of  the  clock,  or  twenty  to.  Married, 
and  gone  to  syiend  his  honeymoon  in  the  Isle  of  Wight :  a 
very  delect alile  place  for  a  month's  residence.  I  have  to 
announce  to  you  tliat,  thanks  to  your  assistance,  the  experi- 
ment is  launched,  sii'!" 


f84  TnE  ORDEAL  OF  RIOnARP  FEVEREL. 

"  Rioliartl  inarn'eil !" 

Tlu>iv  was  soiiK'lhiiiir  to  tliink  and  to  say  in  objection  to  it, 
but  tlio  wits  of  j)oor  llii)i)ias  wore  softened  by  the  shock. 
His  hand  travelled  half-way  to  his  forehead,  spread  out  to 
smooth  the  surface  of  that  seat  of  reason,  and  then  fell. 

"  Surely  you  knew  all  about  it  ?  you  were  so  anxious  to 
have  liim  in  town  under  your  charge."  .   .  . 

"Married?"  Hippias  jumped  up — he  had  it.  "Why, 
he's  under  age !  he's  an  infant." 

"  So  he  is.  But  the  infant  is  not  the  less  married.  Fib 
like  a  man  and  pay  your  fee — what  does  it  matter  ?  Any 
one  who  is  breeched  can  obtain  a  licence  in  our  noble  country. 
And  the  interests  of  morality  demand  that  it  should  not  bo 
difficult.  Is  it  true — can  you  persuade  anybody  that  you 
have  known  nothing  about  it  ?" 

"  Ha  !  infamous  joke  !  I  wish,  sir,  you  would  play  your 
pranks  on  somebody  else,"  said  Hippias  sternly,  as  he  sank 
back  on  the  sofa.  "  You've  done  me  up  for  the  day,  I  can 
assure  you." 

Adrian  sac  down  to  instil  belief  by  gentle  degrees,  and 
put  an  artistic  finish  to  the  work.  He  had  the  gratification 
of  passing  his  uncle  through  varied  contortions,  and  at  last 
Hippias  pei-spired  in  conviction,  and  exclaimed,  "  This 
accounts  for  his  conduct  to  me.  That  boy  must  have  a  cun- 
ning nothing  short  of  infernal !  I  feel  ...  I  feel  it  just 
here,"  he  drew  a  hand  along  his  midriff. 

"  I'm  not  equal  to  this  world  of  fools,"  he  added  faintly, 
and  shut  his  eyes.  "  No,  1  can't  dine.  Eat  ?  ha !  .  .  .  no. 
Go  without  me  !" 

Shortly  after,  Hippias  went  to  bed,  saying  to  himself,  as 
he  undressed,  "  See  what  comes  of  our  fine  schemes  !  Poor 
Austin !'"  and  as  the  pillow  swelled  over  his  ears,  "  I'm  not 
sure  that  a  day's  fast  won't  do  me  good."  The  Dyspepsy  had 
bought  his  philosophy  at  a  heavy  price ;  he  had  a  right  to 
use  it. 

Adrian  injsumed  the  procession  of  the  cake. 

He  sighted  his  melancholy  uncle  Algernon  hunting  an 
appetite  in  the  Row,  and  looking  as  if  the  hope  ahead  of  hira 
were  also  one-legged.  The  Captain  did  not  pass  without 
querying  the  ungainly  parcel. 

"  I  hope  I  carry  it  ostentatiously  enough  ?  "  said  Adrian. 
"  Enclosed  is  wherewithal  to  quiet  the  alarm  of  the  land. 


PROCESSION  OP  THE  CAKE.  285 

Now  may  the  maids  and  wives  of  Merry  England  sleep 
secure  !  I  liad  half  a  mind  to  fix  it  on  a  pole,  and  engage  a 
band  to  parade  it.  This  is  onr  dear  Richard's  wedding-cake. 
Married  at  half-past  eleven  this  morning-,  by  licence,  at  the 
Kensington  parish  church  ;  his  own  ring  being  lost  he 
employed  the  ring  of  his  beautiful  bride's  lachrymose  land- 
lady, she  standing  adjacent  by  the  altar.  His  fai-ewell  to 
you  as  a  bachelor,  and  hers  as  a  maid,  you  can  claim  on 
the  spot,  if  you  think  proper,  and  digest  according  to  your 
powers." 

Algernon  let  off  steam  in  a  whistle.  "  Thompson,  the 
solicitor's  daughter !  "  he  said.  "  I  met  them  the  other  day, 
somewhere  about  here.  He  introduced  me  to  her.  A  pretty 
little  baggage." 

"  No."  Adi-ian  set  him  right.  "  'Tis  a  Miss  Desborough, 
a  Roman  Catholic  dairymaid.  Reminds  one  of  pastoral  Eng- 
land in  the  time  of  the  Plantagenets !  He's  quite  equal  to 
introducing  her  as  Thompson's  daughter,  and  himself  as 
Beelzebub's  son.  However,  the  wild  animal  is  in  Hymen's 
chains,  and  the  cake  is  cut.     Will  you  have  your  morsel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  by  all  means ! — not  now."  Algernon  had  an  un- 
wonted air  of  reflection. — "  Father  know  it  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.     He  will  to-night  by  nine  o'clock." 

"  Then  I  must  see  him  by  seven.     Don't  say  you  met  me." 

He  nodded,  and  pricked  his  horse. 

"  Wants  money !  "  said  Adrian,  putting  the  combustible  he 
carried  once  nioi-e  in  motion. 

The  women  wei-e  the  crowning  joy  of  his  contemplative 
mind.  He  had  reserved  them  for  his  final  discharge.  Dear 
demonstrative  creatures  !  Dyspepsia  would  not  weaken  their 
poignant  outcries,  or  self-interest  check  their  fainting  fits. 
On  (ho  generic  woman  one  could  calculate.  Well  might  The 
Pilguim's  Scrip  say  of  her  that,  "  She  is  always  at  Nature's 
breast ;  "  not  intending  it  as  a  compliment.  Each  woman  is 
Eve  throughout  the  ages  ;  whereas  the  Pilgrim  would  have 
us  believe  that  the  Adam  in  men  has  become  warier,  if  not 
wiser ;  and  Aveak  as  he  is,  has  learnt  a  lesson  from  time. 
Probably  the  Pilgrim's  meaning  may  be  taken  to  be,  that 
Man  grows,  and  Woman  does  not. 

At  any  rate,  Adi-ian  hoped  for  such  natural  choruses  as  3'ou 
hear  in  the  nursery  when  a  baid)le  is  lost.  He  was  awake 
to  Mrs.  Doria's  maternal  predestinations,  and  guessed   that 


286  THE  ORDEAT.  OP  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

Clare  stood  ready  with  the  best  form  of  filial  obedience. 
They  were  only  a  poor  couple  to  j^'ratify  his  Mephistophelian 
humour,  to  be  sure,  but  Mrs.  Doria  was  equal  to  twenty,  and 
they  would  jiroclaira  the  diverse  ways  with  which  maidenhood 
und  womanhood  took  disappointment,  while  the  smrounding 
Forey  girls  and  other  females  of  the  family  assembly  were 
expected  to  develop  the  liner  shades  and  tapering  edges  of 
an  atritation  to  which  no  woman  could  be  cold. 

All  went  well.  He  managed  clcvei-ly  to  leave  the  cake 
unchallenged  in  a  conspicuous  part  of  the  drawing-room,  and 
stepped  gaily  down  to  dinner.  Much  of  the  conversation 
adverted  to  Richard.  Mrs.  Doria  asked  him  if  he  had  seen 
the  youth,  or  heard  of  him. 

"  Seen  him  ?  no !  Heard  of  him  ?  yes  !  "  said  Adrian.  "  I 
have  heard  of  him.  I  heard  that  he  was  sublimely  happy, 
and  had  eaten  such  a  breakfast  that  dinner  was  impossible ; 
claret  and  cold  chicken,  cake  and  " 

"  Cake  at  breakfast !  "   they  all  interjected. 

"  That  seems  to  be  his  fancy  just  now." 

"  "WTiat  an  extraordinary  taste  !  " 

"  You  know,  he  is  educated  on  a  System." 

One  fast  young  male  Forey  allied  the  System  and  the  cake 
in  a  miserable  pun.  Adrian,  a  hater  of  puns,  looked  at  him, 
and  held  the  table  sclent,  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak  ;  but 
he  said  nothing  and  the  young  gentleman  vanished  from  the 
conversation  in  a  blush,  extinguished  by  his  own  spark. 

Mrs.  Doria  peevishly  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  fish-cake,  I  sup- 
pose !  I  wish  he  understood  a  little  better  the  obligations  of 
relationship." 

"  Whether  he  understands  them,  I  can't  say,"  observed 
Adrian,  "  but  I  assure  you  he  is  very  energetic  in  extending 
them." 

The  wise  youth,  talked  innuendoes  whenever  he  had  an 
oppoi'tunity,  that  his  dear  relative  might  be  rendered  suffi- 
ciently inflammable  by  and  by  at  the  aspect  of  the  cake;  but 
he  was  not  thought  more  than  commonly  mysterious  and 
deep. 

"  Was  his  appointment  at  the  house  of  those  Grandison 
people  ?  "  Mrs.  Doria  asked,  with  a  hostile  upper-lip. 

Adrian  warmed  the  blindfolded  parties  by  replying,  "  Do 
they  keep  a  beadle  at  the  door  ?  " 

Mrs.  Doria's  animosity  to  Mrs.   Grandison  made  her  treat 


PROCESSION  OP  THE  CAKE.  287 

tMs  as  a  piece  of  satirical  ingenuousness.  "  I  dare  say  tliey 
do,"  she  said. 

"  And  a  curate  on  hand  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  think  a  dozen  !  " 

Old  Mr.  Forey  advised  his  punning  grandson  Clarence  to 
give  that  house  a  wide  berth,  where  he  might  be  disposed  of 
and  dished-up  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  the  scent  ran  ol5  at 
a  jest. 

The  Foreys  gave  good  dinners,  and  with  the  old  gentleman 
the  excellent  old  fashion  remained  in  permanence  of  trooping 
oii  the  ladies  as  soon  as  they  had  taken  theLi'  sustenance  and 
just  exchanged  a  smile  with  the  flowers  and  the  dessert, 
■when  they  rose  to  fade  with  a  beautiful  accord,  and  the 
gallant  males  breathed  under  easier  waistcoats,  and  settled 
to  the  business  of  the  table,  sure  that  an  hour  was  their  own. 
Adrian  took  a  chair  by  Brandon  Forey,  a  barrister  of 
standing. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  "  whether  an  infant  in  law 
can  legally  bind  himself." 

"  If  he's  old  enough  to  affix  his  signature  to  an  instrument, 
I  suppose  he  can,"  yawned  Brandon. 

"  Is  he  responsible  for  his  acts  Y  " 

"  I've  no  doubt  we  could  hang  him." 

"  Then  what  he  could  do  for  himself,  you  could  do  for 
him  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  so  much  ;  pretty  near." 

*'  For  instance,  he  can  marry  ?  " 

*'  That's  not  a  criminal  case,  you  know." 

"  And  the  marriage  is  valid  ?  " 

"  You  can  dispute  it." 

"  Tes,  and  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  can  fight.  It  holdsi 
then  ?  " 

"  Both  water  and  fire !  " 

The  patriarch  of  the  table  sang  out  to  Adrian  that  he 
stopped  the  vigorous  circulation  of  the  claret. 

"  Dear  me,  sir  !  "  said  Adrian,  "I  beg  pardon.  The  cir- 
cumstances must  excuse  me.  The  fact  is,  my  cousin  K-ichju-d 
got  married  to  a  daii-ymaid  this  morning,  and  I  wauteil  to 
know  whether  it  held  in  law." 

It  was  amusing  to  watch  the  manly  coolness  with  which 
the  announcement  was  taken.  Nothing  was  he;ir(l  mofU 
energetic  tlian,  "  Deuce  he  has  !  "  and,  "  A  (.liurynuiid  ! 


288  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

"  I  tlionrrlit  it  belter  to  let  the  ladies  dino  in  peace.*' 
Adrian  continued.     "I    wanted  to   be    able    to    console    my 

aunt" 

>V'ell,  but — well,  but,"  the  old  gentleman,  much  the  most 
excited,  puffed — "  eh,  Brandon  ?  He's  a  boy,  this  young 
ass !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  a  boy  can  go  and  mai-ry  when 
he  pleases,  and  any  trull  he  pleases,  and  the  marriage  is 
good  ?  If  I  thought  that  I'd  turn  every  woman  off  my 
premises.  I  would !  from  the  housekeeper  to  the  scullery- 
maid.     I'd  have  no  woman  near  him  till — till  " 

"  Till  the  young  greenhorn  was  grey,  sir  ?  "  suggested 
Brandon. 

"  Till  he  knew  what  women  are  made  of,  sir ! "  the  old 
gentleman  finished  his  sentence  vehemently,  "  What,  d  ye 
think,  will  Feverel  say  to  it,  Mr.  Adi'ian  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  trying  the  very  System  you  have  proposed, 
sir — one  that  does  not  reckon  on  the  powerful  action  of 
curiosity  on  the  juvenile  intelligence.  I'm  afraid  it's  the 
very  worst  way  of  sohang  the  problem." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Clarence.     "  None  but  a  fool " 

"  At  your  age,"  Adrian  relieved  his  embaiTassment,  "  it  is 
natural,  my  dear  Clarence,  that  you  should  consider  the  idea 
of  an  isolated  or  imprisoned  manhood  something  monstrous, 
and  we  do  not  expect  you  to  see  what  amount  of  wisdom  it 
contains.  You  follow  one  extreme,  and  we  the  other.  I 
don't  say  that  a  middle  course  exists.  The  history  of  man- 
kind shows  our  painful  efforts  to  find  one,  but  they  have 
invariably  resolved  themselves  into  asceticism,  or  laxity, 
acting  and  reacting.  The  moral  question  is,  if  a  naughty 
little  man,  by  reason  of  his  naughtiness,  releases  himself 
from  foolishness,  does  a  foolish  little  man,  by  reason  of  his 
foolishness,  save  himself  from  naughtiness  ?  " 

A  discussion,  peculiar  to  men  of  the  world,  succeeded  the 
laugh  at  !Mr.  Clarence.  Then  coffee  Avas  handed  round  and 
the  footman  infoi-med  Adrian,  in  a  low  voice,  that  Mrs. 
Doria  Forey  particularly  wished  to  speak  with  him.  Ad_rian 
preferred  not  to  go  in  alone.  "  Very  well,"  he  said,  and 
sipped  his  coffee.  They  talked  on,  sounding  the  depths  of 
law  in  Brandon  Fc^i'ey,  and  receiving  nought  but  hollow 
echoes  frorti  that  profound  cavity.  He  would  not  affiiin  that 
the  mun-iage  was  invalid :  he  would  not  affirm  that  it  could 
not  be  annulled.     He  thought  not :  still  he  thought  it  would 


PROCESSION  OP  THE  CAKE.  289 

be  worth  trying.  A  consummated  and  a  non-consummated 
union  were  two  different  things.  .  .  . 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Adrian,  "  does  the  Law  recognize  that  ? 
Why  that's  almost  human !  " 

Another  message  was  brought  to  Adrian  that  Mrs.  Doria 
Forey  very  particularly  wished  to  speak  with  him. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  pleased  to  have 
his  faith  in  woman  strengthened.  The  cake  had  exjiloded, 
no  doubt. 

So  it  proved,  when  the  gentleman  joined  the  fair  society. 
All  the  younger  ladies  stood  about  the  table,  whereon  the 
cake  stood  displayed,  gaps  being  left  for  those  sitting  to 
feast  their  vision,  and  intr-ude  the  comments  and  specula- 
tions continually  arising  from  fresh  shocks  of  wonder  at  the 
unaccountable  apparition.  Entering  with  the  half-guilty  air 
of  men  who  know  they  have  come  from  a  grosser  atmo- 
sphere, the  gallant  males  also  arranged  themselves  round  the 
common  object  of  curiosity. 

"  Here  !  Adrian !  "  Mrs.  Doria  cried.  "  Where  is  Adrian  ? 
Piay  come  here.  Tell  me !  Where  did  this  cake  como 
from  ?  Whose  is  it  ?  What  does  it  do  here  ?  You  know 
all  about  it,  for  you  brought  io.  Clare  saw  you  bring  it  into 
the  room.  What  doeis  It  mean  ?  I  insist  upon  a  direct 
answer.     Now  do  not  make  me  impatient,  Adrian." 

Certainly  Mrs.  Doria  was  equal  to  twenty.  By  her  con- 
centrated rapidity  and  volcanic  complexion  it  was  evident 
that  suspicion  had  kindled. 

"  I  was  really  bound  to  bring  it,"  Adrian  protested. 

**  Answer  me  !  " 

The  wise  youth  bowed  :  "  Categorically.  This  cake  camo 
from  the  house  of  a  person,  a  female,  of  the  name  of  Berry. 
It  belongs  to  you  partly,  partly  to  me,  pai'tly  to  Clare,  and 
to  the  rest  of  our  family,  on  the  {)rinciple  of  equal  division: 
for  which  purpose  it  is  present.  ..." 

"Yes!  Speak!" 

"  It  means,  my  dear  aunt,  what  that  kind  of  cake  usually 
does  mean." 

"  This,  then,  is  the  Breakfast !  And  the  ring!  Adrian! 
where  is  Richard  ?  " 

Mrs.  Doria  still  clung  to  unbelief  in  the  monstrous 
horror. 

But  when  Adrian  told  her  that  Richard  had  left  town,  her 

u 


290  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHAKD  FEVEREL 

8trugE:Hng  hope  sank.     "  The  wretched  boy  has  ruined  him« 
8flf  !  "  she  said,  and  sat  down  trembling. 

Oh  !  that  System  !  The  delicate  vituperations  gentle 
ladies  use  instead  of  oaths,  Mrs.  Doria  showered  on  that 
System.  She  hesitated  not  to  say  that  her  brother  had  got 
•what  he  deserved.  Opinionated,  morbid,  weak,  justice  had 
overtaken  him.  Now  he  would  see  !  but  at  what  a  price  !  at 
what  a  sacrifice ! 

!Mrs.  Doria  commanded  Adrian  to  confirm  her  fears. 

Sadly  the  Avise  youth  recapitulated  Berry's  words.  "  He 
was  married  this  morning  at  half-past  eleven  of  the  clock,  or 
twenty  to,  by  licence,  at  the  Kensington  parish  church." 

"  Then  that  was  his  appointment ! "  Mrs.  Doria  mur- 
mured. 

"  That  was  the  cake  for  breakfast !  "  breathed  a  second  of 
her  sex. 

"  And  it  was  his  ring  !  "  exclaimed  a  third.     ' 

The  men  were  silent,  and  made  long  faces. 

Clare  stood  cold  and  sedate.  She  and  her  mother  avoided 
each  other's  eyes. 

"  Is  it  that  abominable  country  person,  Adrian  ?  " 

"  The  happy  damsel  is,  I  regret  to  say,  the  Papist  daiiy- 
maid,"  said  Adrian,  in  sorrowful  but  deliberate  accents. 

Then  arose  a  feminine  hum,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mrs. 
Doria  cried,  "  Brandon !  "  She  was  a  woman  of  energy. 
Her  thoughts  resolved  to  action  spontaneously. 

"  Brandon,"  she  drew  the  barrister  a  little  aside,  "  can  they 
not  be  followed,  and  separated  ?  I  want  your  advice  ? 
Cannot  we  separate  them  ?  A  boy  !  it  is  really  shameful 
if  he  should  be  allowed  to  fall  into  the  toils  of  a  designing 
creature  to  ruin  himself  irrevocably.  Can  we  not,  Bran- 
don ?" 

The  worthy  barrister  felt  inclined  to  laugh,  but  ho 
answered  her  entreaties  :  "From  what  I  hear  of  the  young 
groom  I  should  imagine  the  office  perilous." 

"  I'm  speaking  of  law,  Biandon.  Can  we  not  obtain  an 
order  from  one  of  your  Courts  to  pursue  them^  and  sepai-ata 
them  instantly  r" 

"  This  evening  ?" 

"  Yes !" 

Brandon  was  sorry  to  say  she  decidedly  could  not. 

**  You  m^ight  call  on  one  of  your  Judges,  Brandon." 


PROCESSION  OP  THE  CAKl.  291 

Brandon  assured  lier  that  the  Judges  were  a  hard-worked 
race,  and  to  a  man  slept  heavily  after  dinner. 

"  Will  you  do  so  to-morrow,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  ? 
Will  you  promise  me  to  do  so,  Brandon  ? — Or  a  magistrate  ! 
A  magistrate  would  send  a  policeman  after  them.  My  dear 
Brandon!  I  beg — I  beg  you  to  assist  us  in  this  dreadful 
extremity.  It  will  be  the  death  of  my  poor  brother.  I 
believe  he  would  forgive  anything  but  this.  You  have  no 
idea  what  his  notions  are  of  blood." 

Brandon  tipped  Adrian  a  significant  nod  to  step  in  and 
aid. 

"  What  is  it,  aunt  ?"  asked  the  wise  youth.  "  You  want 
them  followed  and  torn  asunder  by  wild  policemen  ?" 

"  To-mon-ow !"  Brandon  queerly  interposed. 

"  Won't  that  be — just  too  late  ?"  Adrian  suggested. 

Mrs.  Doria  sighed  out  her  last  spark  of  hope. 

*'  You  see,"  said  Adrian.  .   .  . 

"  Yes  !  yes  !"  Mrs.  Doria  did  not  require  any  of  his 
elucidations.  "  Pray  be  quiet,  Adrian,  and  let  me  speak. 
Brandon !  it  cannot  be  !  it's  quite  impossible  !  Can  you  stand 
there  anH  tell  me  that  boy  is  legally  married  ?  I  never  will 
believe  it !  The  law  cannot  be  so  shamefully  bad  as  to  permit 
a  boy — a  mere  child — to  do  such  absurd  things.  Grandpapa  ! " 
she  beckoned  to  the  old  gentleman.  "  Grandpapa !  pray  do 
make  Brandon  speak.  These  lawyers  never  will.  He  might 
stop  it,  if  he  would.  If  I  were  a  man,  do  you  think  I  would 
stand  here  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  the  old  gentleman  toddled  to  compose 
her,  "  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion.  I  believe  he  knows  no  more 
than  you  or  I.  My  belief  is  they  none  of  them  know  an^'- 
thing  till  they  join  issue  and  go  into  Court.  I  want  to  see 
a  few  female  lawyers." 

"  To  encourage  the  bankrupt  perruquier,  sir  V"  said 
Adrian.  "  They  would  have  to  keep  a  largo  supply  of  wiga 
on  hand." 

"And  you  can  jest,  Adrian!"  his  aunt  reproached  liim. 
"  But  I  will  not  be  beaten.  I  know — I  am  firmly  conviiiccHl 
that  no  law  would  ever  allow  a  boy  to  disgrace  his  family 
and  ruin  himself  like  that,  and  nothing  sliall  persuade  ino 
that  it  is  so.  Now,  teL  me,  Brandon,  and  pray  do  sjxnik  in 
answer  to  my  questions,  and  j)leuse  to  forget  you  are  dealing 
with  a  woniiiu.      Can   my  nc^pluiW  bo  rescued   from  tlio  eon- 

u  2 


2i>2  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

sequences  of  his  folly?     Is  what  he  has  done  leg'itimatef 
/.<;  ho  bound  for  life  by  what  he  has  done  while  a  boy  ?" 

"  Well — a,"  Brandon  breathed  through  his  teeth.  "  A — hm! 
the  matter's  so  very  delicate,  you  see,  Helen." 

"  You're  to  forget  that,"  Adrian  remarked. 

"  A — hm  !  well !"  pursued  Brandon.  "  Perhaps  if  yon 
could  arrest  and  divide  them  before  nightfall,  and  make 
allidavit  of  certain  facts"  .  .  . 

*'  Yes  "r*"  the  eager  woman  hastened  his  lagging  mouth. 

"  Well  .  .  .  hm !  a  ...  in  that  case  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  Or  if  a 
lunatic,  you  could  prove  him  to  have  been  of  unsound 
mind  "... 

"  Oh !  there's  no  doubt  of  his  madness  on  my  mind, 
Brandon." 

"Yes!  well!  in  that  case  .  .  .  Or  if  of  different  religious 
persuasions"  .  .  . 

"  She  is  a  Catholic !"  Mrs.  Doria  joyfully  interjected. 

"Yes  !  well !  in  that  case  .  .  .  objections  might  be  taken 
to  the  fonn  of  the  marriage  .  .  .  Might  be  proved  fictitious 
.  .  .  Or  if  he's  under,  say,  eighteen  years"  .  .  . 

"  He  can't  be  much  more,"  cried  Mrs.  Doria.  "  I  think," 
she  appeared  to  reflect,  and  then  faltered  imploringly  to 
Adrian,  "  What  is  Richard's  age  '?" 

The  kind  wise  youth  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  strike 
away  the  phantom  straw  she  caught  at. 

"  Oh  !  about  that,  I  should  fancy,"  he  muttered,  and  found 
it  necessary  at  the  same  time  to  duck  and  turn  his  head  for 
concealment.     Mrs.  Doria  surpassed  his  expectations. 

"  Yes !  well,  then  .  .  ."  Brandon  was  resuming  with  a 
shrug,  which  was  meant  to  say  he  still  pledged  himself  to 
nothing,  when  Clare's  voice  was  heard  from  out  the  buzzing 
circle  of  her  cousins :  "  Richard  is  nineteen  years  and  six 
months  old  to-day,  mama." 

"  Nonsense,  child." 

"  He  is,  mama."     Clare's  voice  was  very  steadfast. 

*'  'Sousense,  I  tell  you.     How  can  yon  know  ?  " 

*'  Richard  is  one  year  and  nine  months  older  than  me, 
mama." 

Mrs.  Doria  fought  the  fact  by  years  and  finally  by  months. 
Clare  was  too  strong  for  her. 

"  Singular  child !  "  she  mentally  apostrophized  the  girl 
who  scornfully  rejected  straws  while  drowning. 


PROCESSION  OP  THE  CAKE.  293 

*'  But  there's  the  religion  still !  "  she  comforted  herself, 
and  sat  down  to  cogitate. 

The  men  smiled,  and  looked  vacuous. 

Music  was  proposed.  There  are  times  when  soft  music 
hath  not  charms ;  when  it  is  put  to  as  base  uses  as  Imperial 
Caesar's  dust  and  is  simply  taken  to  fill  horrid  pauses. 
Angelica  Forey  thumped  the  piano,  and  sang  :  "  J'm  a 
laughing  Qitana,  ha — ha  !  ha — ha !  "  Nobody  believed  her. 
Matilda  Forey  and  her  cousin  Mary  Bi'anksburne  wedded 
their  voices,  and  songfully  incited  all  young  people  to  Haste 
to  the  bower  that  love  has  built,  and  defy  the  wise  ones  of  the 
world ;  but  the  wise  ones  of  the  world  were  in  a  majority 
there,  and  very  few  places  of  assembly  will  be  found  where 
they  are  not ;  so  the  glowing  appeal  of  the  British  ballad- 
monger  passed  into  tho  bosom  of  the  emptiness  he  addressed. 
Clare  was  asked  to  entertain  the  company.  The  singular 
child  calmly  marched  to  the  instrument,  and  turned  over  the 
exquisitely  appropriate  illustrations  to  the  British  ballad- 
monger's  repertory. 

"  Sing  this,  dear,"  said  Angelica.  "  This  is  pretty :  '  J 
know  I  have  not  loved  in  vain  ! '  Eh  ?  don't  you  like  that  ? 
or  this  :  '' He  knew  not  that  I  watched  his  ways'  What's  this 
correction  in  the  lines.  .  .  ?  'J  thought  he  knew  not  I  wore — ' 
*  It's  that  Clarence  !  Really  it's  a  shame  how  he  treats  our 
books.  And  here  again :  '  When  I  heard  he  was  married.'' 
Spliced !  he  has  written  in.  One  of  his  dreadful  slang  words  ! 
I'll  serve  him  out,  though.  Oh  !  he  is  too  absurd.  Look : 
'  I  dare  not  breathe  his  name.''  He  has  written  :  '  For  it  is  not 
•pretty — Tomkins!'     Clarence  has  no  idea  of  sentiment." 

But  Clarence  candidly  revealed  the  estimation  in  which 
the  British  balladmonger  is  held  by  the  applausive  sons  of 
Britain  (not  enamoured  of  the  fair  cantatrice),  who  murmur 
*'  Beautiful !  Charming  song !  "  and  nightly  receive  drawing- 
room  lessons  of  disgust  at  hearts,  and  bosoms,  and  bowers, 
that  may  partly  account  for  their  reticence  and  gaucherie 
when  hearts,  and  bosoms,  and  bowers,  are  things  of  earnest 
with  them. 

Clare  rejected  all  pathetic  anatomy,  and  sang  a  little  Irish 
air.  Her  duty  done,  she  marched  from  the  piano.  Mothers 
are  rarely  deceived  by  their  daughters  in  these  matters  ;  but 
Clare  deceived  her  mother;  and  Mrs.  Doria  only  persisted  in 
feeling  an  agony  of  pity  for  her  child,  that  she  might  the 


294  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

more  warrantably  pity  lierself — a  not  uncommon  form  of  tlio 
emotion,  for  thoro  is  no  juq'gler  like  that  lieart  the  balhid- 
monger  puts  into  our  mouths  so  ooldly.  llemember  that  she 
saw  years  of  self-denial,  years  of  a  ripening  scheme,  rendered 
fruitless  in  a  minute,  and  by  the  System  which  had  almost 
reduced  her  to  the  condition  of  constitutional  hypocrite.  She 
had  enough  of  bitterness  to  brood  over,  and  some  excuse  for 
self-pity. 

Still,  even  wlien  she  was  cooler,  Mrs.  Doria's  energetic 
nature  prevented  Her  from  giving  up.  Straws  were  straws, 
and  the  frailer  they  were  the  harder  she  clutched  them. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  left  the  room,  calling  to 
Adrian  to  follow  her. 

"  Adi-ian,"  she   said,  turning   upon   him  in  the  passage, 

"  you  mentioned  a  house  where  this  horrible  cake where 

he  was  this  morning.  I  desire  you  to  take  me  to  that  woman 
immediately." 

The  wise  youth  had  not  bargained  for  personal  servitude. 
He  had  hoped  he  should  be  in  time  for  the  last  act  of  the 
opera  that  night,  aftei  enjoying  the  comedy  of  real  life. 

"  My  dear  aunt "  ....   he  was  beginning  to  insinuate. 

"  Order  a  cab  to  be  sent  for,  and  get  your  hat,"  said  Mrs. 
Doria. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey.  He  stamped  his 
assent  to  the  Pilgrim's  dictum,  that  "Women  are  practical 
creatures,  and  now  reflected  on  his  own  account  that  relation- 
ship to  a  young  fool  may  be  a  vexation  and  a  nuisance. 
However,  Mrs.  IJoria  compensated  him. 

What  Mrs.  Doria  intended  to  do,  the  practical  creature 
did  not  plainly  know ;  but  her  energy  positively  demanded 
to  be  used  in  some  way  or  other,  and  her  instinct  directed 
her  to  the  offender  on  whom  she  could  use  it  in  wrath.  She 
wanted  somebody  to  be  angry  with,  somebody  to  abuse. 
She  dared  not  abuse  her  brother  to  his  face  :  him  she  would 
have  to  console.  Adrian  was  a  fellow-hy])Ocrite  to  the  Sys- 
tem, and  would,  she  Avas  aware,  bring  her  into  painfully 
delicate,  albeit  highly  philosophic,  ground  by  a  discussion  of 
the  case.  So  she  drove  to  Bessy  Berry's  simply  to  inquire 
■whither  her  nephew  had  Aoaati. 

When  a  soft  woman,  and  that  soft  woman  a  sinner,  i.s 
matched  with  a  woman  of  energy,  she  does  not  show  much 
fight,  and  she  meets  no  mercy.     Bessy  Beiry's  creditor  came 


PROCESSION  OF  THE  CAKE.  295 

Co  her  in  female  form  that  nig-ht.  She  then  beheld  it  in  all 
its  teiTors.  Hitherto  it  had  appeared  to  her  as  a  male, 
a  disembodied  spirit  of  her  imagination  possessing  male 
attributes,  and  the  peculiar  male  characteristic  of  being 
moved,  and  ultimately  silenced,  by  tears.  As  female,  her 
creditor  was  terrible  indeed.  Still,  had  it  not  been  a  late 
hour,  Bessy  Berry  would  have  died  rather  than  speak  openly 
that  her  babes  had  sped  to  make  their  ne^-t  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  They  had  a  long  start,  they  were  out  of  the  reach 
of  pursuers,  they  were  safe,  and  she  told  what  she  had  to 
tell.  She  told  more  than  was  wise  of  her  to  tell.  She  made 
mention  of  her  early  service  in  the  family,  and  of  her  little 
pension.  Alas  !  her  little  pension  !  Her  creditor  had  come 
expecting  no  payment — come,  as  creditors  are  wont  in  such 
moods,  just  to  take  it  out  of  her,  to  employ  the  familiar 
term.     At  once  Mrs.  Doria  pounced  upon  the  pension. 

"  That,  of  course,  you  know  is  at  an  end,"  she  said  in  the 
calmest  manner,  and  Berry  did  not  plead  for  the  little  bit  of 
bread  to  her.  She  only  asked  a  little  consideration  for  her 
feelings. 

True  admirers  of  women  had  better  stand  aside  from  the 
scene.  Undoubtedly  it  was  very  sad  for  Adrian  to  be  com- 
pelled to  witness  it.  Mrs.  Doria  was  not  generous.  The 
PiLfjRiM  may  be  wrong  about  the  sex  not  growing;  but  its 
fashion  of  conducting  warfare  we  must  allow  to  he  barbar- 
ous, and  according  to  what  is  deemed  the  pristine,  or  wild 
cat,  method.  Ruin,  nothing  short  of  it,  accompanied  poor 
Berry  to  her  bed  that  night,  and  her  character  bled  till 
morning  on  her  pillow. 

The  scene  over,  Adrian  reconducted  Mrs.  Doria  to  her 
home.  Mice  had  been  at  the  cake  during  her  absence, 
apparently.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  present  put  it  on  the 
gi-eedy  mice,  who  were  accused  of  having  gorged  and  gone  to 
bed. 

"  I'm  sure  they're  quite  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "  It's 
a  farce,  this  marriage,  and  Adrian  has  quite  come  to  my  way 
of  thinking.  I  would  not  touch  an  atom  of  it.  Why,  they 
were  married  in  a  man-ied  woman's  ring !  Can  tluit  bo 
legal,  as  you  call  it  ?  Oh,  I'm  convinced  !  Don't  tell  me. 
Austin  will  be  in  town  to-morrow,  and  if  he  is  true  to  hi.s 
principles,  he  will  instantly  adopt  measures  to  rescue  his  son 


son  THK  ORDEAL  OF  IMrHAKD  FEVI'Hr.L, 

from  infamy.  I  ■want  no  Iriral  advice.  1  g'o  upon  common 
sense,  coinnion  docencv.     This  marriage  is  false." 

;Mrs.  Doria's  tine  scheme  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  her 
life,  that  she  could  not  give  it  up.  She  took  Clare  to  her 
bed,  and  caressed  and  wept  over  her,  as  she  would  not  have 
done  had  she  known  the  singular  child,  saying,  "  Poor 
Richard  !  my  dear  poor  boy  !  Ave  must  save  him,  Clare !  we 
must  save  him ! "  Of  the  two  the  mother  showed  the 
greater  want  of  iron  on  this  occasion.  Clare  lay  in  her  arms 
rigid  and  emotionless,  with  one  of  her  hands  tight-locked. 
All  she  said  was  :  "  I  knew  it  in  the  morning,  mama."  She 
slept  clasping  Richard's  nuptial  ring. 

By  this  time  all  specially  concerned  in  the  System  knew 
it.  The  honeymoon  was  shining  placidly  above  them.  Is 
not  happiness  like  another  circulating  medium  ?  When  wo 
have  a  very  great  deal  of  it,  some  poor  heai-ts  are  aching  for 
what  is  taken  away  from  them.  When  we  have  gone  out 
and  seized  it  on  the  highways,  certain  inscrutable  laws  ai-o 
sure  to  be  at  work  to  bring  us  to  the  criminal  bar,  soonei"  or 
later.  Who  knows  the  honeymoon  that  did  not  steal  some- 
body's sweetness  ?  Richard  Turpin  went  forth,  singing : 
"  Money  or  life  "  to  the  world :  Richaid  Feverel  has  done 
the  same,  substituting  "  Happiness "  for  "  Money,"  fre- 
quently synonyms.  The  coin  he  wanted  he  would  have,  and 
was  just  as  much  a  highway  robber  as  his  fellow  Dick,  so 
that  those  who  have  failed  to  recognize  him  as  a  hero  before, 
may  now  regard  him  in  that  light.  Meanwhile  the  woi-ld 
he  has  squeezed  looks  exceedingly  patient  and  beautiful. 
His  coin  chinks  delicious  music  to  him.  Nature,  and  the 
order  of  things  on  earth,  have  no  wanner  admirer  than  a 
jolly  brigand  or  a  young  man  made  happy  by  the  Jews. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NURSING  THE  DEVIL. 


And  now  the  author  of  the  System  was  on  trial  under  tha 
eyes  of^  the  lady  who  loved  him.  What  so  kind  as  they  ? 
Yet    are  they  very  rigorous,   those   soft  watchful  woman's 


TTORSma  THE  DEVIL.  297 

eyes.  If  yon  fall  below  the  measure  tliey  have  made  of  you, 
you  will  feel  it  in  the  fulness  of  time.  She  cannot  but  show 
you  that  she  took  you  for  a  giant,  and  has  had  to  come  down 
i,  bit.  Ton  feel  yourself  strangely  diminishing  in  those 
sweet  mirrors,  till  at  last  they  drop  on  you  complacently 
level.  But,  oh  beware,  vain  man,  of  ever  waxing  enamouicd 
of  that  wonderful  elongation  of  a  male  creature  you  saw  re- 
flected in  her  adoring  upcast  orbs !  Beware  of  assisting  to 
delude  her !  A  woman  who  is  not  quite  a  fool  will  f oi-give 
your  being  but  a  man,  if  you  are  surely  that :  she  will  haply 
learn  to  acknowledge  that  no  mortal  tailor  could  have  lit  ted 
that  figure  she  made  of  you  respectably,  and  that  practically 
(though  she  sighs  to  think  it)  her  ideal  of  you  was  on  the 
pattern  of  an  overgrown  charity-boy  in  the  regulation  jacket 
and  breech.  For  this  she  first  scorns  the  narrow  capacities 
of  the  tailor,  and  then  smiles  at  herself.  But  shouldst  thou, 
when  the  hour  says  plainly,  Be  thyself,  and  the  woman  is 
willing  to  take  thee  as  thou  art,  shouldst  thou  still  aspire  to 
be  that  thing  of  shanks  and  wrists,  wilt  thou  not  seem  con- 
temptible as  well  as  ridiculous  ?  And  when  the  fall  comes, 
will  it  not  be  flat  on  thy  face,  instead  of  to  the  common 
height  of  men  ?  You  may  fall  miles  below  her  measure  of 
you,  and  be  safe :  nothing  is  damaged  save  an  overgrown 
charity-boy  ;  but  if  you  fall  below  the  common  height  of 
men,  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  see  her  rustle  her 
gown,  spy  at  the  looking-glass,  and  transfer  her  allegiance. 
The  moral  of  which  is,  that  if  we  pretend  to  be  what  we  aro 
not,  women,  for  whose  amusement  the  farce  is  perfoiined, 
will  find  us  out  and  punish  us  for  it.  And  it  is  usually  the 
end  of  a  sentimental  dalliance. 

Had  Sir  Austin  given  vent  to  the  pain  and  wrath  it  was 
natural  he  should  feel,  he  might  have  gone  to  unphilosophic 
excesses,  and,  however  much  ho  lowered  his  reputation  us  a 
sage,  Lady  Blandish  would  have  excused  him :  she  would  not 
have  loved  him  less  for  seeing  him  closer.  But  the  poor 
gentleman  tasked  his  soul  and  stretched  his  muscles  to  act 
up  tu  her  conception  of  him.  He,  a  man  of  science  in  life, 
who  was  bound  to  be  surjjrised  by  nothing  in  nature,  it  was 
not  for  him  to  do  more  than  lift  his  eyebrows  aiid  draw  in 
his  lij)S  at  the  news  delivered  by  Ripton  Thompson,  that  ill 
bird  at  liaynham. 

All   he   said,   after  Kipton    liad    lunulcd    the    letters  and 


2'.'S  THE  OUDEAL  OP  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

carried  his  penitential  headache  to  bed,  was  :  "  You  see, 
Emmoline,  it  is  useless  to  base  any  system  on  a  human 
being." 

A  very  philosophical  remark  for  one  who  has  been  busily 
at  work  building  for  nearly  twenty  years.  Too  philoso- 
phical to  seem  genuine.  It  revealed  where  the  blow  struck 
sharpest.  Richard  was  no  longer  the  Richard  of  his  crea- 
tion— his  pride  and  his  joy — bub  simply  a  human  being  with 
the  rest.     The  bright  star  had  sunk  among  the  mass. 

And  yet,  what  had  the  young  man  doner'  And  in  what 
had  the  System  failed  ? 

The  lady  could  not  but  ask  herself  this,  while  she  condoled 
with  the  offended  father. 

"  ^ly  f]-iend,"  she  said,  tenderly  taking  his  hand  before 
she  retired,  "I  know  hovv  deeply  you  must  be  grieved.  I 
know  what  your  disappointment  must  be.  I  do  not  beg  of 
you  to  forgive  him  now.  You  cannot  doubt  his  love  for  this 
young  person,  and  according  to  his  light,  has  he  not  behaved 
honourably,  and  as  you  would  have  wished,  rather  than 
bring  her  to  shame?  You  will  think  of  that.  It  has  been 
an  accident — a  misfortune — a  terrible  misfortune"  .  .  . 

"  The  God  of  this  world  is  in  the  machine — not  out  of  it," 
Sir  Austin  interrupted  her,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  get  the 
good-night  over. 

At  any  other  time  her  mind  would  have  been  arrested  to 
admire  the  phrase  ;  now  it  seemed  perverse,  vain,  false,  and 
she  was  tempted  to  turn  the  meaning  that  was  in  it  against 
himself,  much  as  she  pitied  him. 

"Yon  know,  Emmeline,"  he  added,  "  I  believe  very  little 
in  the  fortune,  or  misfortune,  to  which  men  attribute  their 
successes  and  reverses.  They  are  useful  impersonations  to 
novelists;  but  my  opinion  is  sufficiently  high  of  flesh  and 
blood  to  believe  that  we  make  our  own  history  without 
intervention.  Accidents  ?=— Terrible  misfortunes? — What 
are  they  ? — Good -night." 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  looking  sad  and  troubled.  "When 
I  said,  '  misfortune,'  I  meant,  of  course,  that  he  is  to  blame, 
but — shall  I  leave  you  his  letter  to  me?" 

"  I  think  I  have  enough  to  meditate  upon,"  he  replied, 
coldly  bowing. 

"  God  bless  you,"  she  whispered.  "And — may  I  say  it? 
do  not  shut  your  heart." 


NURSING  THE  DEVIL.  2iJ9 

He  assured  her  that  he  hoped  not  to  do  so,  and  the  moment 
she  was  gone  he  set  about  shutting  it  as  tight  as  he  could. 

If,  instead  of  saying.  Base  no  system  on  a  human  being, 
he  had  said,  Never  experimentalize  with  one,  he  would  have 
been  nearer  the  truth  of  his  own  case.  He  had  experi- 
mented on  humanity  in  the  person  of  the  son  he  loved  as  his 
life,  and  at  once,  when  the  experiment  appeared  to  have  failed, 
all  humanity's  failings  fell  on  the  shoulders  of  his  son 
B  ichard's  parting  laugh  in  the  train — it  was  explicable  now  : 
it  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  mockery  of  this  base  nature 
of  ours  at  every  endeavour  to  exalt  and  chasten  it.  The 
young  man  had  plotted  this.  From  step  to  step  Sir  Austin 
traced  the  plot.  The  curious  mask  he  had  worn  since  his 
illness  ;  the  selection  of  his  incapable  uncle  Hi])pias  for  a 
companion  in  preference  to  Adrian;  it  was  an  evident,  well- 
perfected  plot.  That  hideous  laugh  would  not  be  silenced. 
Base,  like  the  rest,  treacherous,  a  creature  of  passions  using 
his  abilities  solely  to  gratify  them — never  surely  had  humanity 
such  chances  as  in  him  !  A  Manichtean  tendency,  from  which 
the  sententious  eulogist  of  nature  had  been  struggling  for 
years  (and  which  was  partly  at  the  bottom  of  the  System), 
now  began  to  cloud  and  usurp  dominion  of  his  mind.  As 
he  sftt  alone  in  the  forlorn  dead-hush  of  his  library,  he  saw 
the  devil. 

How  are  we  to  know  when  we  are  at  the  head  and  foun- 
tain of  the  fates  of  them  we  love  ? 

There  by  the  springs  of -Richard's  future,  his  father  sat: 
and  the  devil  said  to  him  :  "  Only  be  quiet :  do  nothing  :  re- 
solutely do  nothing:  your  object  now  is  to  keep  a  brave  face 
to  the  world,  so  that  all  may  know  you  superior  to  this  human 
nature  that  has  deceived  you.  For  it  is  the  shameless  decep- 
tion,  not  the  marriage,  that  has  wounded  you." 

"Ay!"  answered  the  baronet,  "the  shameless  deception, 
not  the  mai-riage!  wicked  and  ruinous  as  it  must  be;  a 
destroyer  of  my  tenderest  hopes  !  my  dearest  schemes  !  Not 
the  marriage  : — the  shameless  deception!"  and  he  crum))lod 
up  his  son's  letter  to  him,  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 

How  are  we  to  distinguish  the  dark  chief  of  the  ^la- 
nichfeans  when  ho  talks  our  own  thoughts  to  us  ? 

Further  ho  whispered,  "And  your  Sy.stem : — if  you  would 
be  brave  to  the  world,  have  courage  to  cast  the  dream  of  it 


300  THE  ORDEAL  OP  EICHAED  PEVEKEL. 

out  of  you  :  relinquish  an  impossible  project ;  sec  it  as  it  is 
— dead  :  too  good  for  men  !" 

"Ay  !"  muttered  the  baronet:  "all  who  would  save  them 
perish  on  the  Cross  !" 

And  so  he  sat  nursing  the  devil. 

By  and  by  he  took  his  lamp,  and  put  on  the  old  cloak  and 
cap,  and  went  to  gaze  at  Ripton.  That  exhausted  debauchee 
and  youth  without  a  destiny  slept  a  dead  sleep.  A  handker- 
chief was  bound  about  his  forehead,  and  his  helpless  sunken 
chin  and  snoring  nose  projected  up  the  pillow,  made  him 
look  absurdly  piteous.  The  baronet  remembered  how  often 
he  had  compared  his  boy  with  this  one :  his  own  bright  boy ! 
And  where  was  the  difierence  between  them  ? 

"  Mere  outward  gilding  !"  said  his  familiar. 

"  X"es,"  he  responded,  "  I  dare  say  this  one  never  positively 
plotted  to  deceive  his  father :  he  followed  his  appetites  un- 
checked,  and  is  internally  the  sounder  of  the  two." 

Ripton,  with  his  sunken  chin  and  snoring  nose  under  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  stood  for  human  nature,  honest,  however 
abject. 

"  Miss  Random,  I  fear  veiy  much,  is  a  necessary  establish- 
ment !  "  whispered  the  monitor. 

"  Does  the  evil  in  us  demand  its  natural  food,  or  it  corrupts 
the  whole  ?  "  ejaculated  Sir  Austin.  "  And  is  no  angel  of 
avail  till  that  is  drawn  off  ?  And  is  that  our  conflict — to  see 
whether  we  can  escape  the  contagion  of  its  embrace,  and 
come  uncorrupted  out  of  that  ?  " 

"  The  world  is  wise  in  its  way,"  said  the  voice. 

"  Though  it  look  on  itself  through  Port  wine  ?  "  he  sug- 
gested, remembering  his  lawyer  Thompson. 

"  Wise  in  not  seeking  to  be  too  wise,"  said  the  voice. 

"  And  getting  intoxicated  on  its  drug  of  comfort !  " 

**  Human  nature  is  weak." 

"  And  Ikliss  Random  is  an  establishment,  and  Wild  Oats  an 
institution ! " 

"  It  always  has  been  so." 

"  And  always  will  be  ?  " 

"  So  I  fear !  in  spite  of  your  very  noble  efforts." 

"  And  leads — whither  ?     And  ends — where  ?  " 

Richard's  laugh,  taken  up  by  horrid  reverberations,  as  it 
were  through  the  lengths  of  the  Lower  Halls,  replied. 

This  colloquy  of  two  voices  in  a  brain  was  concluded  by 


NURSING  THE  DEVIL.  301 

Sir  Austin  asking  again  if  there  were  no  actual  difference 
between  the  flower  of  his  hopes  and  yonder  drunken  weed, 
and  receiving  for  answer  that  there  was  a  decided  dissimi- 
larity in  the  smell  of  the  couple ;  becoming  cognizant  of 
which  he  retreated. 

Sir  Austin  did  not  battle  with  the  tempter.  He  took  him 
into  his  bosom  at  once,  as  if  he  had  been  ripe  for  him,  arid 
received  his  suggestions,  and  bowed  to  his  dictates.  Because 
he  suffered,  and  decreed  that  he  would  suffer  silently,  and  be 
the  only  sufferer,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  great-minded 
in  his  calamity.  He  had  stood  against  the  world.  The  world 
had  beaten  him.  What  then  ?  He  must  shut  his  heart  and 
mask  his  face ;  that  was  all.  To  be  far  in  advance  of  the 
mass,  is  as  fruitless  to  mankind,  he  reflected,  as  straggling  in 
th^  rear.  For  how  do  we  know  that  they  move  behind  us  at 
all,  or  move  in  our  track  ?  What  we  win  for  them  is  lost ; 
and  where  we  are  overthrown  we  lie  ! 

It  was  thus  that  a  fine  mind  and  a  fine  heart  at  the  bounds 
of  a  nature  not  great,  chose  to  colour  his  retrogression  and 
countenance  his  shortcoming  ;  and  it  was  thus  that  he  set 
aljout  ruining  the  work  he  had  done.  He  might  well  say,  as 
he  once  did,  that  thez^e  are  hours  when  the  clearest  soul 
becomes  a  cunning  fox.  For  a  grief  that  was  private  and 
peculiar,  he  unhesitatingly  cast  the  blame  upon  humanity ; 
just  as  he  had  accused  it  in  the  period  of  what  he  termed  his 
own  ordeal.  How  had  he  borne  that  ?  By  masking  his  face. 
And  he  prepared  the  ordeal  for  his  son  by  doing  the  same. 
This  was  by  no  means  his  idea  of  a  man's  duty  in  tribulation, 
about  which  he  could  be  strenuously  eloquent.  But  it  was  his 
instinct  so  to  act,  and  in  times  of  trial  great  natures  alone  are 
not  at  the  mercy  of  their  instincts.  Moreover  it  would  cost 
him  pain  to  mask  his  face ;  pain  worse  than  that  he  endured 
when  there  still  remained  an  object  foi'  him  to  oi)en  his  heart 
to  in  proportion ;  and  he  always  reposed  upon  the  Spartan 
comfort  of  bearing  pain  and  being  passive.  "Do  nothing," 
said  the  devil  he  nursed;  which  meant  in  his  case,  "Take 
mu  into  you  and  don't  cast  mo  out."  Excellent  and  sane,  I 
think,  is  the  outburst  of  wrath  to  men,  when  it  stops  short  of 
slaughter.  For  who  that  locks  it  up  to  eat  in  solitary,  can 
say  that  it  in  consumed  ?  Sir  Austin  had  as  weak  a  digestion 
for  wrath,  as  poor  Hi])])ias  foi-  a  green  duckling.  Instead  of 
eating  it,  it  ate  him.     The  wild  beast  in  him  Avas  not  the  les." 


302  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICUARD  FEVEREL. 

dontlly  liocr\nso  it  did  not  roar,  and  tlio  devil  in  liim  not  ilie 
less  active  beoauso  he  resolved  to  do  nothing. 

He  sat  at  the  sjirings  of  Richard's  future,  in  the  forlorn 
dend-hush  of  his  library  there,  hearing  the  cinders  click  in 
the  extinguished  fire,  and  that  humming  stillness  in  which 
Due  may  fancy  one  hears  the  midnight  Fates  busily  stirring 
their  embryos.  The  lamp  glowed  mildly  on  the  bust  of 
Chatham. 

Towai-d  morning  a  gentle  knock  fell  at  his  door.  Lady 
Blandish  glided  in.  With  hasty  step  she  came  straight  to 
him,  and  took  both  his  hands. 

"  My  friend,"  site  said,  speaking  tearfully,  and  trembling, 
"  I  feared  1  should  find  you  here.  I  could  not  sleep.  How 
is  it  with  you  ?  " 

"Well,  Emmeline  !  well  !  "  he  replied,  torturing  his  brows 
to  fix  the  mask. 

He  wished  it  had  been  Adrian  who  had  come  to  him.  He 
had  an  extraordinary  longing  for  Adrian's  society.  He  knew 
that  the  wise  youth  would  divine  how  to  treat  him,  and  he 
mentally  confessed  to  just  enough  weakness  to  demand  a 
certain  kind  of  management.  Besides  Adrian,  he  had  not  a 
doubt,  would  accept  him  entirely  as  he  seemed,  and  not 
pester  him  in  any  way  by  trying  to  unlock  his  heart; 
whereas,  a  woman,  he  feared,  would  be  waxing  too  womanly, 
and  swelling  from  tears  and  supplications  to  a  scene,  of  all 
things  abhorred  by  him  the  most.  So  he  rapped  the  lloor 
with  his  foot,  and  gave  the  lady  no  very  welcome  face  when 
he  said  it  was  well  with  him. 

She  sat  do\vn  by  his  side,  still  holding  one  hand  firmly, 
and  softly  detaining  the  other. 

"  Oh,  my  friend !  may  I  believe  you  ?  May  I  speak  to 
you  ?  "  She  leaned  close  to  him.  "  You  know  my  heai-t.  I 
have  no  better  ambition  than  to  be  your  friend.  Surely  I 
divide  your  grief,  and  may  I  not  claim  your  confidence  ? 
Who  has  wept  more  over  your  great  and  dreadful  soitows  ? 
I  would  not  have  come  to  you,  but  I  do  believe  that  soitow 
shared  relieves  the  bunden,  and  it  is  now  that  you  may  feel  a 
woman's  aid,  and  something  of  what  a  woman  could  be  to 
you."  ... 

"  Be  assured,"  he  gravely  said,  "  I  thank  you,  Emmeline, 
for  your  intentions." 

**  No,  no  1  not  for  my  intentions  1     And  do  not  thank  nie. 


NURSING  THE  DEVIL.  303 

TTiiiik  of  him  .  .  .  think  of  your  dear  boy  .  .  .  Our 
Richard,  as  we  have  called  him. — Oh !  do  not  think  it  a 
foolish  superstition  of  mine,  but  I  have  had  a  thought  this 
night  that  has  kept  me  in  toi'ment  till  I  rose  to  speak  to  you. 
.  .  .  Tell  me  first  you  have  forgiven  him." 

"  A  father  bears  no  malice  to  his  son,  Emmeline." 

"  Your  heart  has  forgiven  him  ?  " 

"  My  heart  has  taken  what  he  gave." 

"  And  quite  forgiven  him  ?  " 

"  You  will  hear  no  complaints  of  mine." 

The  lady  paused  despondingly,  and  looked  at  him  in  a 
wistful  manner,  saying  with  a  sigh,  "  Yes !  I  know  how 
noble  you  are,  and  different  from  others !  " 

He  drew  one  of  his  hands  from  her  relaxed  hold. 

"  You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  Emmeline." 

"I  cannot  sleep." 

*'  Go,  and  talk  to  me  another  time." 

"  No,  it  must  be  now.  You  have  helped  me  when  I 
struggled  to  rise  into  a  clearer  world,  and  I  think,  humble 
as  I  am,  I  can  help  you  now.  I  have  had  a  thought  this 
night  that  if  you  do  not  pray  for  him  and  bless  him  ...  it 
will  end  miserably.     My  friend,  have  you  done  so  ?  " 

He  was  stung  and  offended,  and  could  hardly  help  show- 
ing it  in  spite  of  his  mask. 

"  Have  you  done  so,  Austin  ?  " 

"  This  is  assuredly  a  new  way  of  committing  fathers  to 
the  follies  of  their  sons,  Emmeline  !  " 

"  No,  not  that.  But  will  you  pray  for  your  boy,  and  bless 
him,  before  the  day  comes  ?  " 

He  restrained  himself  to  pronounce  his  words  calmly : — 
"  And  I  must  do  this,  or  it  will  end  in  misery  ?  How  elso 
can  it  end  ?  Can  I  save  him  from  the  seed  he  has  sown  ? 
Consider,  Emmeline,  what  you  say.  He  has  repeated  his 
cousin's  sin.     You  see  the  end  of  that  .   .   ." 

"  Oh,  so  different!  This  young  person  is  not,  is  not  of  tho 
class  poor  Austin  Wcntworth  allied  himself  to.  Indeed  it  is 
different.  And  he — be  just  and  admit  his  nobleness.  I 
fancied  you  did.  This  young  person  has  great  beauty,  she 
has  the  elements  of  good  bi-oeding,  she — indeed  I  think,  had 
she  been  in  anotlicr  position,  you  would  not  have  looked 
apon  her  unfavoui'ably." 


304  THE  ORDEAL  OF  IMCnAlJD  FKVKREL. 

"  She  may  be  too  good  foi'  my  son  !  "  The  baronet  spoke 
vith  sublime  bitterness. 

"  No  woman  is  too  good  for  Richard,  and  you  know  it." 

"  Pa.s.s  her." 

"  Yes,  I  will  speak  only  of  him.  He  met  her  by  a  fatal 
accident.  We  thought  his  love  dead,  and  so  did  he  till  he 
saw  her  again.  He  met  her,  he  thought  we  were  plotting 
aLraiii.-^t  him,  he  thought  he  should  lose  her  for  ever,  and  in 
the  madness  of  an  hour  he  did  this."   .    .    . 

"  ^ly  Emmeline  ]ileads  bravely  for  clandestine  matches." 

"  All !  do  not  trifle,  my  friend.  Say:  would  you  have  had 
him  act  as  young  men  in  his  position  generally  do  to  young 
women  beneath  them  ?  " 

Sir  Austin  did  not  like  the  question.  It  probed  him  very 
severely. 

"  You  mean,"  he  spid,  "  that  fathers  must  fold  their  arms, 
and  either  submit  to  infamous  marriages,  or  have  these 
creatures  ruined." 

"1  do  not  mean  that,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  striving  for 
what  she  did  mean,  and  how  to  express  it.  "  I  mean  that 
...  he  loved  her.  Is  it  not  a  madness  at  his  age  ?  But 
^vhat  I  chiefly  mean  is — save  him  from  the  consequences. 
Ko,  you  shall  not  withdraw  your  hand.  Think  of  his  pi'ide, 
his  sensitiveness,  his  great  wild  nature — wild  when  he  is  set 
wrong:  think,  how  intense  it  is,  set  upon  love;  think,  my 
friend,  do  not  forget  his  love  for  you." 

Sii"  Austin  smiled  an  admirable  smile  of  pity. 

"  That  I  should  save  him,  or  any  one,  from  consequences, 
is  asking  more  than  the  oi-der  of  things  will  allow  to  you, 
Emmeline,  and  is  not  in  the  disposition  of  this  world.  I 
cannot.  Consequences  are  the  natural  offspring  of  acts.  My 
child,  you  are  talking  sentiment,  which  is  the  distraction  of 
our  modern  age  in  everything — a  phantasmal  vapour  dis- 
torting  the  image  of  the  life  we  live.  You  ask  me  to  give 
liira  a  golden  age  in  spite  of  himself.  All  that  could  be 
done,  by  keeping  him  in  the  paths  of  virtue  and  truth,  I  did. 
He  is  become  a  man,  and  as  a  man  he  must  reap  his  own 
sowing." 

The  baffled  lady  sighed.  He  sat  so  rigid :  he  spoke  so 
securely,  as  if  wisdom  w-ere  to  him  more  than  the  love  of  his 
son.  And  yet  he  did  love  his  son.  Feeling  sure  that  he 
loved  hui  son  while  he  spoke  so  loftily,  she  reverenced  h.iia 


NURSING  THE  DEVIL.  305 

etlll,  baffled  as  slie  was,  and  sensible  that  she  had  been 
quibbled  with. 

"  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  open  your  heart  to  him,"  she 
said. 

He  was  silent. 

"  Call  him  a  man, — he  is,  and  must  ever  be  the  child  of 
your  education,  my  friend." 

"  You  would  console  me,  Emmeline,  with  the  prospect 
that,  if  he  ruins  himself,  he  spares  the  world  of  young  women. 
Yes,  that  is  something !  that  is  something !  " 

Closeb'  she  scanned  the  mask.  It  was  impenetrable.  He 
could  meet  her  eyes,  and  respond  to  the  pressure  of  her 
hand,  and  smile,  and  not  show  what  he  felt.  Nor  did  ho 
deem  it  hypocritical  to  seek  to  maintain  his  elevation  in  her 
soft  soul,  by  simulating  supreme  philosophy  over  offended 
love.  Nor  did  he  know  that  he  had  an  angel  with  him 
then :  a  blind  angel,  and  a  weak  one,  but  one  who  struck 
upon  his  chance. 

"  Am  I  pardoned  for  coming  to  you  ?  "  she  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Surely  I  can  read  my  Emmeline's  intentions,"  he  gently 
replied. 

"  Very  poor  ones.  I  feel  my  weakness.  I  cannot  utter 
half  I  have  been  thinking.     Oh,  if  I  could  !  " 

"  You  speak  very  well,  Emmeline." 

"  At  least,  I  am  pardoned  !  " 

"  Surely  so." 

"  And  before  I  leave  you,  dear  friend,  shall  I  be  forgiven  ? 
• — may  I  beg  it  ? — will  you  bless  him  ?  " 

He  was  again  silent. 

"  Pray  for  him,  Austin !  pray  for  him  ere  the  night  is 
over." 

As  she  spoke  she  slid  down  to  his  feet  and  pressed  his 
hand  to  her  bosom. 

The  baronet  was  startled.  In  very  dread  of  the  soft  fit 
that  wooed  him,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  rose,  and 
went  to  tlie  window. 

"It's  day  already!"  he  said  with  assumed  vivacity 
throwing  open  the  shutters,  and  displaying  the  young  light 
on  the  lawn. 

Lfidy  Blandish  dried  her  tears  as  she  knelt,  and  then 
joined    him,    and   glanced   up   silently   at   Richard's    moon 


306  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

BtaT.din£T  in  wano  toward  tho  west.  She  hoped  it  was  be- 
cause oif  her  haviny'  hwu  jircmature  in  pleading  so  earnestly, 
that  she  had  failed  to  move  him,  and  she  accused  herself 
more  than  the  baronet.  But  in  acting  as  she  had  done,  she 
bad  treated  him  as  no  common  man,  and  she  was  compelled 
to  perceive  that  his  heart  was  at  present  hardly  superior  to 
the  hearts  of  ordinary  men,  however  composed  his  face 
might  be,  and  appaiently  serene  his  wisdom.  From  that 
moment  she  grew  critical  of  him,  and  began  to  study  her 
idol — a  process  dangerous  to  idols.  He,  now  that  she  seemed 
to  have  relinquished  the  painful  subject,  drew  to  her,  and  aa 
one  who  wished  to  smooth  a  foregone  roughness,  murmured  : 
"  God's  rarest  blessing  is,  after  all,  a  good  woman !  ]\Iy 
Emmeline  bears  her  sleepless  night  well.  She  does  not 
shame  the  day."  He  gazed  down  on  her  with  a  fondling 
tenderness. 

"  I  could  bear  many,  many !"  she  replied,  meeting  hia 
eyes,  "  and  you  would  see  me  looTc  better  and  better,  if  .  .  . 
if  only  ,  .  ."  bat  she  had  no  encouragement  to  end  the 
sentence. 

Perhaps  he  "wanted  some  mute  form  of  consolation  ;  perhaps 
the  handsome  placid  features  of  the  dark-eyed  dame  touched 
him  :  at  any  rate  their  Platonism  was  advanced  by  his  put- 
ting  an  arm  about  her.  She  felt  the  arm  and  talked  of  the 
morning. 

Thus  proximate,  they  by  and  by  both  heard  something 
very  like  a  groan  behind  them,  and  looking  round,  beheld 
the  Saurian  eye.  Lady  Blandish  smiled,  but  the  baronet's 
discomposure  was  not  to  be  concealed.  By  a  strange  fatality 
every  stage  of  their  innocent  loves  was  certain  to  have  a 
human  beholder. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  beg  pardon,"  Benson  mumbled,  arresting 
his  head  in  a  melancholy  pendulosity.  He  was  ordered  out 
of  the  room. 

"  And  I  think  I  shall  follow  him,  and  try  to  get  forty 
winks,"  said  Lady  Blandish.  They  parted  with  a  quiet 
squeeze  of  hands. 

The  baronet  then  called  in  Benson. 

"  Get  me  my  breakfast  as  soon  as  you  can,"  he  said,  re- 
gardless of  the  aspect  of  injured  conscience  Benson  sombrely 
presented  to  him.  "  I  am  going  to  town  early.  And,  Ben- 
son," he  added,  "you  will  also  go  to  town  this  afternoon,  or 


CONQUEST  OP  AN  EPICURE.  307 

to-morrow,  if  it  suits  you,  and  take  your  book  witli  you  to 
Mr.  Tliompson.  You  will  not  return  here.  A  provision  will 
be  made  for  you.     You  can  go." 

The  heavy  butler  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  tremendous 
blow  and  the  baronet's  gesture  choked  him.  At  the  door  ho 
made  another  effort  which  shook  the  rolls  of  his  loose  skin 
pitiably.  An  impatient  signal  sent  him  out  dumb, — and 
Raynham  was  quit  of  the  one  believer  in  the  Great  Shaddock 
do;jma. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

CONQUEST   OF   AN    EPICURE. 


It  was  the  month  of  July.  The  Solent  ran  up  green 
waves  before  a  full-blowing  South-wester.  Gay  little  yachts 
bounded  out  like  foam,  and  flashed  their  sails,  light  as  sea- 
nymphs.  A  crown  of  deep  summer  blue  topped  the  flying 
mountains  of  cloud. 

By  an  open  window  that  looked  on  the  brine  through  nod- 
ding  roses,  our  young  bridal  pair  were  at  breakfast,  regaling 
worthily  both  of  them.  Had  the  Scientific  Humanist  ob- 
served them,  he  could  not  have  contested  the  fact  that,  as  a 
couple  who  had  set  up  to  be  father  and  mother  of  Britons, 
they  were  doing  their  duty.  Files  of  egg-cups  with  disinte- 
grated shells,  bore  witness  to  it,  and  they  were  still  at  work, 
hardly  talking  from  rapidity  of  exercise.  Both  were  dressed 
for  an  expedition.  She  had  her  bonnet  on,  and  he  his  yacht- 
ing-hat. His  sleeves  were  turned  over  at  the  wrists,  and  her 
gown  showed  its  lining  on  her  lap.  At  times  a  chance  word 
might  spring  a  laugh,  but  eating  was  the  business  of  the 
hour,  as  I  would  have  you  to  know  it  always  will  be  where 
Cupid  is  in  earnest.  Tribute  flowed  in  to  them  from  tlio 
subject  land.  Neglected  lies  Love's  penny-whistle  on  which 
they  played  so  prettily,  and  charmed  the  spheres  to  hear 
them.  What  do  they  care  for  the  spheres,  who  have  ono 
another  ?  Come,  eggs !  come,  bread  and  butter  !  come,  tea 
with  sugar  in  it  and  milk !  and  welcome,  the  jolly  hours. 
That  is  a  fair  interpretation  of  the  music  in  them  just  now. 
Yonder  instrument  was  good  only  for  the  overture.  After 
all,  what  finer  aspiration  can  lovers  have,  than  to  be  free 
x2 


308  THE  ORPFAI.  OF  KTrnAT?r>  FFTKHFL. 

man  and  woman  in  tlio  heart  of  plenty  ?  And  is  it  not  a 
glorious  level  to  have  attained':'  Ah,  wretched  Scieiitilic 
Humanist!  not  to  be  by  and  mark  the  admirable  sight  of 
these  young  creatures  feedinpf.  It  would  have  been  a  spell 
to  exorcise  the  Manichee,  methinks. 

The  mipfhty  pcrfoi-mance  came  to  an  end,  and  then,  with  a 
flourish  of  his  table-napkin,  husband  stood  over  wife,  who 
met  him  on  the  confident  budding  of  her  mouth.  The  poetry 
of  mortals  is  their  daily  prose.  Is  it  not  a  glorious  level  to 
have  attained  ?  A  short,  quick-blooded  kiss,  radiant,  fresh, 
and  honest  as  Aurora,  and  then  Richard  saj's  without  lack  of 
cheer,  "  No  letter  to-day,  my  Lucy  !  "  whereat  her  sweet  eyes 
dwell  on  him  a  little  seriously,  but  he  cries,  "  Never  mind ! 
he'll  be  coming  down  himself  some  morning.  He  has  only  to 
know  her,  and  all's  well !  eh  ?  "  and  so  saying  he  puts  a  hand 
beneath  her  chin,  and  seems  to  frame  her  fair  face  in  fancy, 
she  smiling  up  to  be  looked  at. 

"  But  one  thing  I  do  want  to  ask  my  darling,"  says  Lncy, 
and  dropped  into  his  bosom  with  hands  of  petition.  "  Take 
me  on  board  his  yacht  with  him  to-day — not  leave  me  with 
those  people  !     Will  he  ?     I'm  a  good  sailor,  he  knows  !  " 

"The  best  afloat!"  langhs  Richard,  hugging  her,  "but, 
you  know,  you  darling  bit  of  a  sailor,  they  don't  allow  more 
than  a  certain  number  on  board  for  the  race,  and  if  they  hear 
you've  been  with  me,  there'll  be  cries  of  foul  play  !  Besides, 
there's  Lady  Judith  to  talk  to  you  about  Austin,  and  Lord 
Mountfalcon's  compliments  for  you  to  listen  to,  and  Mr. 
Morton  to  take  care  of  you." 

Lucy's  eyes  fixed  sidewa3-s  an  instant. 

"  I  hope  I  don't  frown  and  blush  as  I  did  ?  "  she  said, 
screwing  her  pliable  brows  up  to  him  winningly,  and  he  bent 
his  cheek  against  hers,  and  murmured  something  delicious. 

"  And  we  shall  be  separated  for — how  many  houi's  ?  one, 
two,  three  hours !  "  she  pouted  to  his  flatteries. 

"  And  then  I  shall  come  on  board  to  receive  my  bride's 
congratulations." 

"  And  then  my  husband  will  talk  all  the  time  to  Lady 
Judith." 

"  And  then  I  shall  see  my  wife  frovraing  and  blushing  at 
Lord  Mountfalcon." 

*'  Am  I  so  foolish,  Richard  ?  "  she  forgot  her  trifling  to  ask 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EPICTTEB.  309 

in  an  earnest  way,  and  had  another  Aurorean  kiss,  just 
brushing  the  dew  on  her  lips,  for  answer. 

After  hiding  a  month  in  shyest  shade,  the  pair  of  happy 
sinners  had  wandered  forth  one  day  to  look  on  men  and 
marvel  at  them,  and  had  chanced  to  meet  Mr.  Morton  of 
Poer  Hall,  Austin  Wentworth's  friend,  and  Ralph's  uncle. 
Mr.  Morton  had  once  been  intimate  with  the  baronet,  but  had 
given  him  up  for  many  years  as  impracticable  and  hopeless, 
for  which  reason  he  was  the  more  inclined  to  regard 
Richard's  misdemeanour  charitably,  and  to  lay  the  faults  of 
the  son  on  the  father  ;  and  thinking  society  to  be  the  one 
thing  requisite  to  the  young  man,  he  had  introduced  him  to 
the  people  he  knew  in  the  island ;  among  others  to  the  Lady 
Judith  Felle,  a  fair  young  dame,  who  introduced  him  to 
Lord  Mountfalcon,  a  puissant  nobleman ;  who  introduced 
him  to  the  yachtsmen  beginning  to  cong-regate ;  so  that  in  a 
few  weeks  he  found  himself  in  the  centre  of  a  brilliant  com- 
pany, and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  tasted  what  it  was  to 
have  free  intercourse  with  his  fellow-creatures  of  both  sexes. 
The  son  of  a  System  was,  therefore,  launched ;  not  only 
through  the  surf,  but  in  deep  waters. 

Now  the  baronet  had  so  far  compromised  between  the 
recurrence  of  his  softer  feelings  and  the  suggestions  of  his 
new  familiar,  that  he  had  determined  to  act  toward  Richard 
with  justness.  The  world  called  it  magnanimity,  and  even 
Lady  Blandish  had  some  thoughts  of  the  same  kind  when 
she  heard  that  he  had  decreed  to  Richard  a  handsome  allow- 
ance,  and  had  scouted  Mrs.  Doria's  proposal  for  him  to  con- 
test the  legality  of  the  marriage  ;  but  Sir  Austin  knew  well 
he  was  simply  just  in  not  withholding  money  fi-om  a  youth 
so  situated.  And  here  again  the  world  deceived  him  by 
embellishing  his  conduct.  For  what  it  is  to  be  just  to  whom 
we  love  !  He  knew  it  was  not  magnanimous,  but  the  cry  of 
the  world  somehow  fortified  him  in  the  conceit  that  in  deal- 
ing  perfect  justice  to  his  son  he  was  doing  all  that  was 
possible,  because  so  much  more  than  common  fathers  would 
have  done.     He  had  shut  his  heart. 

Consequently  Richai-d  did  not  want  money.  What  he 
wanted  moi-e,  and  did  not  get,  was  a  word  from  his  father, 
and  though  he  said  nothing  to  sadden  his  young  bride,  she 
felt  how  much  it  preyed  upon  him  to  be  at  variance  with  the 
luan  whom,  now  that  he  had  oileaded  him  and  gone  against 


310  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREt. 

him,  he  -wonld  have  fallen  on  his  knees  to;  the  m<an  who  was 
as  no  other  man  to  him.  She  heard  him  oE  nJLrhts  when  slie 
lay  by  his  side,  and  the  darkness,  and  the  tears,  and  the 
broken  mutterings,  of  tliose  nights  clothed  the  figure  of  the 
strange  stern  man  in  her  mind.  Not  that  it  affected  the 
appetites  of  the  pretty  pair.  We  must  not  expect  that  of 
Cupid  enthroned,  and  in  condition;  under  the  infliience  of 
sea-air,  too.  The  files  of  egg-cu])s  laugh  at  such  an  idea. 
Still  the  worm  did  gnaw  them.  Judge,  then,  of  their  delight 
when,  on  this  pleasant  morning,  as  they  were  issuing  from 
the  garden  of  their  cottage  to  go  down  to  the  sea,  they 
caught  sight  of  Tom  Bakewell  rushing  tip  the  road  with  a 
portmanteau  on  his  shoulders,  and,  some  distance  behind 
him,  discerned  Adi-ian. 

"  It's  all  right !  "  shouted  Richard,  and  ran  off  to  meet 
him,  and  never  left  his  hand  till  he  had  hauled  him  up,  firing 
questions  at  him  all  the  way,  to  where  Lucy  stood. 

"  Lucy  !  this  is  Adrian,  my  cousin." Isn't  he  an  angel  ? 

his  eyes  seemed  to  add  ;  while  Lucy's  clearly  answered, 
"  That  he  is !  " 

The  full-bodied  angel  ceremoniously  bowed  to  her,  and 
acted  with  reserved  unction  the  benefactor  he  saw  in  their 
greetings.  "  I  think  we  arc  not  strangers,"  he  was  good 
enough  to  remark,  and  very  quickly  let  them  know  he  had 
not  breakfasted;  on  hearing  which  they  hurried  him  into 
the  house,  and  Lucy  put  herself  in  motion  to  have  him 
served. 

"  Dear  old  Rady,"  said  Richard,  tugging  at  his  hand 
again,  "  how  glad  I  am  you've  come  !  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  we've  been  horridly  wretched." 

"  Six,  seven,  eight,  nine  eggs,"  was  Adrian's  comment  on 
a  survey  of  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Why  wouldn't  he  write  ?  Why  didn't  he  answer  one  of 
my  letters  ?  But  here  you  are,  so  I  don't  mind  now.  He 
wants  to  see  us,  does  he  ?  We'll  go  up  to-night.  I've  a 
match  on  at  eleven ;  my  little  yacht — I've  called  her  the 
'  Blandish  ' — against  Fred  Currie's  '  Begum.'  I  shall  beat, 
but  whether  I  do  or  not,  we'll  go  up  to-night.  What's  the 
news  ?     ^Vliat  are  they  all  doing  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy ! "  Adrian  returned,  sitting  comfortably 
down,  "  let  me  put  myself  a  little  more  on  an  equal  footing 
with  you  before  I  undertake  to  reply.     Half  that  number  of 


CONQUEST  OP  AN  EPICURE.  311 

eggs  will  be  sufficient  for  an  unmarried  man,  and  then  we'll 
talk.  They're  all  very  well,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect  after 
the  shaking  my  total  vacuity  has  had  this  morning.  I  came 
over  by  the  first  boat,  and  the  sea,  the  sea  has  made  me  love 
mother  earth,  and  desire  of  her  fruits." 

Richard  fretted  restlessly  opposite  his  cool  relative. 

"  Adrian !  what  did  he  say  when  he  heard  of  it  ?  I  want 
to  know  exactly  what  words  he  said." 

"  Well  says  the  sage,  my  son !  '  Speech  is  the  small 
change  of  Silence.'     He  said  less  than  I  do." 

"  That's  how  he  took  it !  "  cried  Richard,  and  plunged  in 
meditation. 

Soon  the  table  was  cleared,  and  laid  out  afresh,  and  Lucy 
preceded  the  maid  bearing  eggs  on  the  tray,  and  sat  down 
unbonneted,  and  like  a  thorough-bred  housewif(3,  to  pour  out 
the  tea  for  him. 

"  Now  we'll  commence,"  said  Adrian,  tapping  his  egg 
with  meditative  cheerfulness  ;  but  his  expression  soon 
changed  to  one  of  pain,  all  the  more  alarming  for  his 
benevolent  efforts  to  conceal  it.  Could  it  be  possible  the 
egg  was  bad  ?  oh,  horror !  Lucy  watched  him,  and  waited 
in  trepidation. 

"  This  egg  has  boiled  three  minutes  and  three  quarters," 
he  observed,  ceasing  to  contemplate  it. 

"  Dear,  dear!  "  said  Lucy,  "I  boiled  them  myself  exactly 
that  time.  Richard  likes  them  so.  And  you  like  them  hard, 
Mr.  Harley  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  like  them  soft.  Two  minutes  and  a 
half,  or  three-quarters  at  the  outside.  An  egg  should  never 
rashly  verge  upon  hardness — never.  Three  minutes  is  the 
excess  of  temerity." 

"  If  Richard  had  told  me  !  If  I  had  only  known  !  "  the 
lovely  little  hostess  interjected  ruefully,  biting  her  lip. 

"  We  mustn't  expect  him  to  pay  attention  to  such  mattei'S." 
said  Adrian,  trying  to  smile. 

"  Hang  it !  there  are  more  eggs  in  the  house,"  cried 
Richard,  and  pulled  savagely  at  the  bell. 

Lucy  jumped  up,  saying,  "  Oh,  yes  !  I  will  go  and  boil 
gome  exactly  the  time  you  like.  Pray  let  me  go,  Mr. 
Harley." 

Adrian   restrained   her   departure   with  a  motion  of  his 


312  TOE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHAKD  FEVEREL. 

hand.  "  Xo,"  ho  said,  "  I  will  be  ruled  by  Richard's  tastes, 
aud  lli'avi-n  graut  im."  his  dit^'ostion  !  " 

Lucy  tiirew  a  sad  l(H)k  at  Iticliard,  who  stretched  on  a 
Bofa,  and  left  tho  burden  of  the  entertainment  entirely  to 
her.  The  Cfrcrs  were  a  melancholy  bei^'inning,  but  her  ardour 
to  please  Adrian  would  not  be  damped,  and  she  deeply 
admired  his  resignation.  If  she  failed  in  pleasing  this 
glorious  herald  of  ])eace,  no  matter  by  what  small  misadven- 
tvu'e,  she  apprehended  calamity ;  so  there  sat  this  fair  dove 
with  bi'ows  at  work  above  her  serious  smiling  blue  eyes, 
covertly  studying  every  aspect  of  tlie  plump-faced  epicure, 
that  she  might  learn  to  propitiate  him.  "  He  shall  not  think 
me  timid  and  stupid,"  thought  this  brave  girl,  and  indeed 
Adrian  Avas  astonished  to  find  that  she  could  both  chat  and 
be  useful,  as  well  as  look  ornamental.  When  he  had  finished 
one  egg,  behold,  two  fresh  ones  came  in,  boiled  according  to 
his  prescription.  She  had  quietly  given  her  oi-ders  to  the 
maid,  and  he  had  them  without  fuss.  Possibly  his  look  of 
dismay  at  the  offending  eggs  had  not  been  altogether  in- 
voluntary, and  her  woman's  instinct,  inexperienced  as  she 
was,  may  have  told  her  that  he  had  come  prepared  to  be  not 
very  well  satisfied  with  anything  in  love's  cottage.  There 
was  mental  faculty  in  those  pliable  brows  to  see  through, 
and  combat,  an  unwitting  wise  youth. 

How  much  she  had  achieved  already  she  partly  divined 
when  Adrian  said  :  "  I  think  now  I'm  in  case  to  answer  your 
questions,  my  dear  boy — thanks  to  Mrs.  Richard,"  and  he 
bowed  to  her  his  first  direct  acknowledgment  of  her  position. 
Lucy  thrilled  with  pleasure. 

"  Ah  !  "  went  Richard,  and  settled  easily  on  his  back. 

"  To  begin,  the  Pilgrim  has  lost  his  Xote-book,  and  has 
been  persuaded  to  offer  a  reward  Avhich  shall  maintain  the 
happy  finder  thereof  in  an  asylum  for  life.  Benson — super- 
lative  Benson — has  turned  his  shoulders  upon  Raynham. 
Xone  know  whither  he  has  departed.  It  is  believed  that 
the  sole  surviving  member  of  the  sect  of  the  Shaddock- 
Dogmatists  is  under  a  total  eclipse  of  Woman." 

"  Benson  gone  ? "  Richard  exclaimed.  "  What  a  tre- 
mendous time  it  seems  since  I  left  Raynham  !  " 

"  So  it  is,  my  dear  boy.  The  honeymoon  is  Mahomet'3 
niinute ;  or  say,  the  Persian  King's  water-pail  that  you  read 
of  in  the  story :  You  dip  your  head  in  it,  and  when  you  diaw 


CONQUEST  OP  AN  EPICUKB.  313 

it.  ont,  you  discover  that  you  have  lived  a  life.  To  resume : 
your  uncle  Algeruon  still  roams  in  pursuit  of  the  lost  one — I 
should  say,  hops.  Your  uncle  Hippias  has  a  new  and  most 
perplexing  symptom  ;  a  determination  of  bride-cake  to  the 
nose.  Ever  since  your  generous  present  to  him,  though  ho 
declares  he  never  consumed  a  morsel  of  it,  he  has  been 
under  the  distressing  illusion  that  his  nose  is  enormous,  and 
I  assure  you  he  exhibits  quite  a  maidenly  timidity  in  follow- 
ing it — through  a  doorway,  for  instance.  He  complains  of 
its  terrible  weight.  I  have  conceived  that  Benson  invisible 
might  be  sitting  on  it.  His  hand,  and  the  doctor's,  are  in 
hoiudy  consultation  with  it,  but  I  fear  it  will  not  grow 
smaller.  The  Pilgrim  has  begotten  upon  it  a  new  Aphorism : 
that  Size  is  a  matter  of  opinion.  It  is  the  last  in  the  Note- 
book,  and  if  they  do  with  Note-books  as  it  is  the  fashion 
to  treat  novels — turn  from  the  commencement  to  the  con- 
clusion— the  happy  finder  will  have  rapidly  qualified  himself 
to  appreciate  the  full  meaning  of  the  reward." 

"  Poor  uncle  Hippy !  "  said  Richard,  "  I  wonder  he  doesn't 
believe  in  magic.  There's  nothing  supernatural  to  rival  the 
wonderful  sensations  he  does  believe  in.  Good  God !  fancy 
coming  to  that !  " 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,"  Lucy  protested,  "  but  I  can't 
help  laughing." 

Charming  to  the  wise  youth  her  pretty  laiighter  sounded. 

"  The  Pilgrim  has  your  notion,  Richard.  Whom  does  he 
not  forestall  ?  '  Confirmed  dyspepsia  is  the  apparatus  of 
illusions,'  and  he  accuses  the  Ages  that  put  faith  in  sorcery, 
of  universal  indigestion,  which  may  have  been  the  case, 
owing  to  their  infamous  cookery.  He  says  again,  if  you 
remember,  that  our  own  Age  is  travelling  back  to  darkness 
and  ignorance  through  dyspepsia.  He  lays  the  seat  of 
wisdom  in  the  centre  of  our  system,  Mrs.  Richard :  for  which 
reason  you  will  understand  how  sensible  I  am  of  the  vast 
obligation  I  am  under  to  you  at  the  i)resent  moment,  for 
your  especial  care  of  mine." 

Richard  looked  on  at  Lucy's  little  triumph,  attributinjj; 
Adrian's  subjugation  to  her  beauty  and  sweetness.  She  had 
latterly  received  a  gi'cat  many  compliments  on  that  score, 
which  she  did  not  care  to  hear,  and  Adrian's  homage  to  a 
practical  quality  was  far  pleasanter  to  the  young  wife,  who 
shrewdly  guessed  that  her  beauty  would  not  help  her  much 


314  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVERElL 

in  the  striigq'le  slio  liad  now  to  maintain.  Adrian  continu- 
ing to  lecture  on  the  excelling  virtues  of  wise  cookery,  a 
thought  struck  her :  Where,  where  had  she  tossed  Mrs. 
Berry's  book  ? 

"  So  that's  all  about  the  home-people  ?  "  said  Richard. 

"  .Vll  !  "'  replied  Adrian.  "Or  stay:  you  know  Clare's 
going  to  be  married  ?     Not  ?     Your  Aunt  Helen  ". 

"  Oh,  bother  my  Aunt  Helen  !  AVhat  do  you  think  she  had 
the  impertinence  to  write — but  never  mind  !    Is  it  to  Ralph  ?  " 

"  Your  Aunt  Helen,  I  was  going  to  say,  my  dear  boy,  is  an 
esti-aordinary  woman.  It  was  from  her  originally  that  the 
Pilgrim  first  learnt  to  call  the  female  the  practical  animal. 
He  studies  us  all,  you  know.  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  is  the 
abstract  portraiture  of  his  surrounding  relatives.  Well, 
your  Aunt  Helen  " 

"  Mrs.  Doria  Battledoria  !  "  laughed  Richard. 

" being  foiled  in  a  little  pet  scheme  of  her  own — call 

it  a  System  if  you  like — of  some  ten  or  fifteen  years'  stand- 
ing, with  regard  to  Miss  Clare  " 

"  The  fair  Shuttlecockiana  !  " 

" instead  of  fretting  like  a  man,  and  questioning  Pro- 
vidence, and  tui-ning  herself  and  everybody  else  inside  out, 
and  seeing  the  world  upside  down,  what  does  the  practical 
animal  do  ?  She  wanted  to  marry  her  to  somebody  she 
couldn't  marry  her  to,  so  she  resolved  instantly  to  marry  her 
to  somebody  she  could  marry  her  to :  and  as  old  gentlemen 
enter  into  these  transactions  with  the  practical  animal  the 
most  readily,  she  fixed  upon  an  old  gentleman;  an  unmai-ried 
old  gentleman,  a  rich  old  gentleman,  and  now  a  captive  old 
gentleman.  The  ceremony  takes  place  in  about  a  week 
from  the  present  time.  No  doubt  you  will  receive  your  invi- 
tation in  a  day  or  two." 

"  And  that  cold,  icy,  v?i'etched  Clare  has  consented  to 
marry  an  old  man  !  "  groaned  Richard.  "  I'll  put  a  stop  to 
that  when  I  go  to  town." 

"  Don't,"  said  Adrian. 

Richard  got  up  and  strode  about  the  room.  Then  he 
bethought  him  it  was  time  to  go  on  board  and  make 
preparations. 

"  I'm  off,"  he  said.  "  Adrian,  you'll  take  her.  She  goes 
in  the  Empress,  Mountfalcon's  vessel.  He  starts  us.  A 
little  schooner-vacht — such  a  beauty  !     I'll  have  one  like  her 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EPICURE.  315 

some  day.  Good-bye,  darling  !  "  lie  whispered  to  Lucy,  and 
his  hand  and  eyes  lingered  on  her,  and  hers  on  him,  seeking 
to  make  up  for  the  priceless  kiss  they  were  debarred  from. 
But  she  quickly  looked  away  from  him  as  he  held  her  : — 
Adrian  was  silent :  his  brows  were  up,  and  his  mouth 
dubiously  contracted.     He  spoke  at  last. 

"  Go  on  the  water  ?  " 

"  Yes.     It's  only  to  St.  Helen's.     Short  and  sharp." 

**  Do  you  grudge  me  the  nourishment  my  poor  system  haa 
just  received,  my  son  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bother  your  system  !  Put  on  your  hat,  and  come 
along.     "  I'll  put  you  on  board  in  my  boat." 

"  Richard  !  I  have  already  paid  the  penalty  of  them  who 
are  condemned  to  come  to  an  island.  I  will  go  with  you  to 
the  edge  of  the  sea,  and  I  will  meet  you  there  when  you 
return,  and  take  up  the  Tale  of  the  Tritons  :  but,  though  I 
forfeit  the  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Richard's  company,  I  refuse  to 
quit  the  land." 

"  Yes,  oh,  Mr.  Harley !  "  Lucy  broke  from  her  husband, 
*'  and  I  will  stay  with  you,  if  you  please.  I  don't  want  to 
go  among  those  people,  and  we  can  see  it  all  from  the  shore. 
Dearest  !  I  don't  want  to  go.  You  don't  mind  ?  Of  course, 
I  will  go  if  you  wish,  but  I  would  so  much  rather  stay;"  and 
she  lengthened  her  plea  in  her  attitude  and  look  to  melt  the 
discontent  she  saw  gathering. 

Adrian  protested  that  she  had  much  better  go ;  that  he 
could  amuse  himself  very  well  till  their  return,  and  so  forth; 
but  she  had  schemes  in  her  pretty  head,  and  held  to  it  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  in  spite  of  Lord  Mountfalcon's  disappoint- 
ment, cited  by  Richard,  and  at  the  gi-eat  i-isk  of  vexing  her 
darling,  as  she  saw.  Ricliard  pished,  and  glanced  contempt- 
uously at  Adrian.     He  gave  way  ungraciously. 

"  There,  do  as  you  like.  Get  your  things  ready  to  leave 
this  evening.  No,  I'm  not  angry." — Who  could  be  ?  ho 
eeemed  as  he  looked  up  from  her  modest  fondling  to  ask 
Adrian,  and  seized  the  indemnity  of  a  kiss  on  her  forehead, 
which,  however,  did  not  immediately  disperse  the  shade  of 
annoyance  he  felt. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Such  a  day  as  this, 
and  a  fellow  refuses  to  come  on  the  water  !  Well,  come 
along  to  the  edge  of  the  sea."  Adj'ian's  angelic  quality  had 
quite  worn  oil'  to  him.     He  never  thought  of  devoting  him- 


816  TOE  ORDEAL  OP  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

self  to  malcc  the  most  of  (lie  matoi-ial  there  wos:  but  Ro-me- 
boily  else  did,  and  that  fair  somebody  succeeded  wonth'rliilly 
in  a  few  short  hours.  She  induced  Adrian  to  reflect  that 
the  baronet  had  only  to  sec  her,  and  the  family  muddlo 
would  be  smoothed  at  once.  Ho  came  to  it  by  degrees  ;  still 
the  giadations  were  rapid.  Her  manner  he  liked ;  she  was 
certainly  a  nice  picture:  best  of  all,  she  was  sensible.  He 
forgot  the  farmer's  niece  in  her,  she  was  so  very  sensible. 
She  appeared  really  to  understand  that  it  was  a  woman's 
duty  to  know  how  to  cook. 

liut  the  diiliculty  was,  by  what  means  the  baronet  could 
bo  brought  to  consent  to  see  her.  He  had  not  yet  consented 
to  see  his  son,  and  Adrian,  spurred  by  Lady  Blandish,  had 
ventured  something  in  coming  down.  He  was  not  inclined 
to  venture  more.  The  small  debate  in  his  mind  ended  by 
his  tlu-owing  the  burden  on  time.  Time  would  bring  the 
matter  about.  Christians  as  well  as  Pagans  are  in  the  habit 
of  phrasing  this  excuse  for  folding  their  arms  ;  "forgetful," 
says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "that  the  Devil's  imps  enter  into 
no  such  armistice." 

As  she  loitered  along  the  shore  with  her  amusing  com- 
panion, Lucy  had  many  things  to  tliink  of.  There  was  her 
darling's  match.  The  yachts  were  started  by  pistol-shot  by 
Lord  Mountfalcon  on  board  the  Empress,  and  her  little  heart 
beat  after  Richard's  straining  sails.  Then  there  was  the 
strangeness  of  walking  with  a  relative  of  Richard's,  one  who 
had  lived  by  his  side  so  long.  And  the  thought  that  perhaps 
this  night  she  would  have  to  appear  before  the  dreaded 
father  of  her  husband. 

"  O  Mr.  Harley  !  "  she  said,  "  is  it  true — are  we  to  go  to- 
night r*     And  me,"  she  faltered,  "  will  he  see  me  ?  " 

"  Ah !  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,"  said 
Adrian.  "  I  made  some  reply  to  our  dear  boy  which  he  haa 
slightly  misinterpreted.  Oui-  second  person  plural  is  liable 
to  misconstruction  by  an  ardent  mind.  I  said  '  see  you,' 
and  he  supposed — now,  Mrs.  Richard,  I  am  sure  you  will 
understand  me.  Just  at  present  perhaps  it  would  be  advise- 
able — when  the  father  and  son  have  settled  their  accounts, 
the  daughter-in-law  can't  be  a  debtor."  .  .  . 

Lucy  threw  up  her  blue  eyes.  A  half-cowardly  delight  at 
the  chance  of  a  respite  fi-om  the  awful  interview  made  her 
quickly  apprehensive. 


CONQUEST  OP  AN  EPICURE.  317 

*•  O  !^^r.  Harley  !  you  think  he  should  go  alone  first  ?  " 

"Well,  that  is  my. notion.  But  the  fact  is,  he  is  such  an 
excellent  husband  that  T  fancy  it  will  require'  more  than  a 
man's  po^yer  of  persuasion  to  get  him  to  go." 

"  But  I  will  persuade  him,  Mr.  Harley." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  would  .  .  ." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  his  happiness,** 
murmured  Lucy. 

The  wise  youth  pressed  her  hand  with  lymphatic  approba* 
tion.  They  walked  on  till  the  yachts  had  rounded  the 
point. 

"  Is  it  to-night,  Mr.  Harley  ?  "  she  asked  with  some 
trouble  in  her  voice  now  that  her  darling  was  out  of  sight. 

"  I  don't  imagine  your  eloquence  even  will  get  him  to  leave 
you  to-night,"  Adrian  replied  gallantly.  "  Besides,  I  must 
speak  for  myself.  To  achieve  the  passage  to  an  island  is 
enough  for  one  day.  No  necessity  exists  for  any  hurry, 
except  in  the  brain  of  that  impetuous  boy.  You  must  cor- 
rect it,  Mrs.  Richard.  Men  are  made  to  be  managed,  and 
women  are  born  managers.  Now,  if  you  were  to  let  him 
know  that  you  don't  want  to  go  to-night,  and  let  him  guess, 
after  a  day  or  two,  that  you  would  very  much  rather  .  .  . 
you  might  affect  a  peculiar  repugnance.  By  taking  it  on 
yourself,  you  see,  this  wild  young  man  will  not  reijuire  suvAi 
frightful  efforts  of  persuasion.  Both  his  father  and  he  are 
exceedingly  delicate  subjects,  and  his  father  unfortunately 
is  not  in  a  position  to  be  managed  directly.  It's  a  strange 
office  to  propose  to  you,  but  it  aj)pears  to  devolve  upon  you 
to  manage  the  father  through  the  son.  Prodigal  having 
made  his  peace,  you,  who  have  done  all  the  work  from  a  dis- 
tance, naturally  come  into  the  circle  of  the  pateri^al  smite, 
knowing  it  due  to  you.  I  see  no  other  way.  If  Bicliard 
suspects  that  his  father  objects  for  the  present  to  welcome 
his  daughter-in-law,  hostilities  Avill  be  continued,  the  breach 
will  be  widened,  bad  will  grow  to  worse,  and  I  see  no  end 
to  it." 

Adrian  looked  in  her  face,  as  much  as  to  say :  Now  are 
you  capable  of  this  piece  of  heroism  ?  And  it  did  seem  hai'd 
to  her  that  she  should  have  to  tell  Richard  she  shrank  from 
any  trial.  But  the  proposition  chimed  in  with  her  fears 
and  her  wishes :  she  thought  the  wise  youth  very  wise  :  the 
poor  child  was  not  insensible  to  his  flattery,  and  the  subtler 


318  TllK  ORDIOAI-  OF  IMrilARD  FEVEUEL. 

flattery  of  makini]^  liorsolf  in  some  nicasnro  a  sacrifice  to  the 
home  she  had  disturbed.  !Shc  agreed  to  simuhitc  a?  Adrian 
had  suggested. 

Victory  is  the  commonest  heritage  of  the  hero,  and  when 
Richard  came  on  shore  proclaiming  that  the  Blandish  had 
beaten  the  Begum  by  seven  minutes  and  three-quarters,  he 
was  hastily  kissed  and  congratulated  by  his  bride  with  her 
fingei-s  among  the  leaves  of  Dr.  Kitchener,  and  anxiously 
questioned  about  wine. 

"  Dearest !  Mr.  Harley  wants  to  stay  with  us  a  little,  and 
he  thinks  we  ought  not  to  go  immediately — that  is,  before 
he  has  had  some  letters,  and  I  feel  ...  I  would  so  much 
rather  .  .  ." 

"  Ah  !  that's  it,  you  coward  !"  said  Richard.  "  Well,  then, 
to-morrow.     We  had  a  splendid  race.     Did  you  see  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  saw  you  and  was  sure  my  darling  would 
win."  And  again  she  threw  on  him  the  cold  water  of  that 
solicitude  about  wine.  "Mr.  Ilarley  must  have  the  best, 
you  know,  and  we  never  drink  it,  and  I'm  so  silly,  I  don't; 
know  good  wine,  and  if  you  would  send  Tom  where  he  can 
get  good  wine.     I  have  seen  to  the  dinner." 

"  So  that's  why  you  didn't  come  to  meet  me  ?" 

"Pardon  me,  darling." 

"Well,  I  do,  but  !Mountfalcon  doesn't,  and  Lady  Judith 
thinks  you  ought  to  have  been  there." 

"  Ah,  but  my  heart  was  with  you!" 

Richard  put  his  hand  to  feel  for  the  little  heart :  her 
eyelids  softened,  and  she  ran  away. 

It  is  to  say  much  of  the  dinner  that  Adrian  found  no  fault 
with  it,  and  was  in  perfect  goodhumour  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  service.  He  did  not  abuse  the  wine  they  Avere  able  to 
pj'ocure  for  him,  which  was  also  much.  The  coffee,  too,  had 
the  honour  of  passing  without  comment.  These  were  sound 
first  steps  toward  tlie  conquest  of  an  epicure,  and  as  yet 
Cupid  did  not  grumble. 

After  coffee  they  strolled  out  to  see  the  sun  set  from  Lady 
Judith's  grounds.  The  wind  had  dropped.  The  clouds  had 
rolled  from  the  zenith,  and  ranged  in  amphitheatre  with 
distant  flushed  bodies  over  sea  and  land:  Titanic  crimson 
head  and  chest  rising  from  the  wave  faced  Hyperion  falling. 
There  hung  Briareus  with  deep-indented  trunk  and  ravined 
brows^  stretching  all   his    hands  up   to   unattainable    blue 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EPICURE.  319 

Bummits.  North-west  the  range  had  a  rich  white  glow,  as 
if  shining  to  the  moon,  and  westward,  streams  of  amber, 
melting  into  upper  rose,  shot  out  from  the  dipping  disk. 

"  What  Sandoe  calls  the  passion-flower  of  heaven,"  said 
Richard  under  his  breath  to  Adi-ian,  who  was  serenely 
chanting  Greek  hexametei'S,  and  answered,  in  the  swing  of 
the  caesura,  "  He  might  as  well  have  said  cauliflower." 

Lady  Judith,  with  a  black  lace  veil  tied  over  her  head,  met 
them  in  the  walk.  She  was  tall  and  dark;  dark-haired, 
dark-eyed,  sweet  and  persuasive  in  her  accent  and  manner. 
"A  second  edition  of  the  Blandish,"  thinks  Adrian.  She 
welcomed  him  as  one  who  had  claims  on  her  affability.  She 
kissed  Lucy  protectingly,  and  remarking  on  the  wondei'S  of 
the  evening,  appropriated  her  husband.  Adrian  and  Lucy 
found  themselves  walking  behind  them. 

The  sun  was  under.  All  the  spaces  of  the  sky  were  alight, 
and  Richard's  fancy  flamed. 

"  So  you're  not  intoxicated  with  your  immense  triumph 
this  morning  ?"  said  Lady  Judith. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me.  When  it's  over  I  feel  ashamed  of 
the  trouble  I've  taken.  Look  at  that  glory  ! — I'm  sure  you 
despise  me  for  it." 

"  Was  I  not  there  to  applaud  you  ?  I  only  think  such 
energies  should  be  turned  into  some  definitely  useful  channel. 
But  you  must  not  go  into  the  Army." 

"  What  else  can  I  do  ?" 

"  You  are  fit  for  so  much  that  is  better." 

*'  I  never  can  be  anything  like  Austin," 

"  But  I  think  you  can  do  more." 

"Well  I  thank  you  for  thinking  it,  Lady  Judith.  Some- 
thing I  will  do.     A  man  must  deserve  to  live,  as  you  say." 

"  Sauces,"  Adrian  was  heard  to  articulate  distinctly  in  the 
rear,  "  Sauces  are  the  top  tree  of  this  science.  A  woman 
who  has  mastered  sauces  sits  on  the  apex  of  civilization." 

Briareus  reddened  duskily  seaward.  The  west  was  all  a 
burning  rose. 

"  How  can  men  see  such  sights  as  those,  and  live  idle  ?" 
Richard  resumed.  "I  feel  ashamed  of  asking  my  men  to 
work  for  me. — Or  I  feel  so  now." 

"Not  when  you're  lacing  the  ]?egnm,T  think.  Thiic's  no 
necessity  for  you  to  turn  democrat  like  Ausliii.  Do  you 
write  now  ?" 


820  THE  ORDEAL  OF  nirTFART)  rRVEI^RL. 

"No.  What  is  writing  like  mine?  It  do(?sn't  rlofoive 
mo.  1  knt)\v  it's  only  tho  e.\cuse  I'm  making  to  mysult'  tor 
remaining  idle.     I  haven't  written  a  line  since — lately," 

"  Beeause  you  are  so  happy." 

"  No,  not  because  of  that.  Of  coui-se  I'm  very  happy  .  .  ." 
He  did  not  finish. 

Vague,  shajieless  ambition  had  replaced  love  in  yonder 
skies.  No  Scientific  Humanist  was  by  to  study  the  natural 
development,  and  guide  him.  This  lady  would  hardly  bo 
deemed  a  very  pro])er  guide  to  the  undirected  energies  of 
the  youth,  yet  they  had  established  relations  of  that  nature. 
She  was  five  years  older  than  he,  and  a  woman,  which  may 
explain  her  serene  presumption. 

The  cloud-giants  had  broken  up :  a  brawny  shouldex* 
Bmouldcred  over  the  sea. 

"  We'll  work  together  in  town,  at  all  events,"  said  Richard 
"Why  can't  we  go  about  together  at  night  and  find  out 
people  who  want  help  ?" 

Lady  Judith  smiled,  and  only  corrected  his  nonsense  by 
Baying,  "  I  think  we  mustn't  be  too  romantic.  You  will  be- 
come a  knight-errant,  I  suppose.  You  have  the  charac- 
teristics of  one." 

"  Especially  at  breakfast,"  Adrian's  unnecessarily  emphatic 
gastronomical  lessons  to  the  young  wife  here  came  in. 

•'You  must  be  our  champion,"  continued  Lady  Judith: 
the  rescuer  and  succourer  of  distressed  dames  and  damsels. 
"  We  want  one  badly." 

"You  do,"  said  Richard  earnestly:  "from  what  I  hear: 
from  what  I  know !"  His  thoughts  flew  oil  with  him  as 
knvght-errant  hailed  shrilly  at  exceeding  critical  moments 
by  distressed  dames  and  damsels.  Images  of  airy  towei-s 
hung  around.  His  fancy  performed  miraculous  feats.  The 
towtTS  crumbled.  The  stars  grew  larger,  seemed  to  throb 
with  lustre.  His  fancy  crumbled  with  the  towers  of  the 
air,  his  heart  gave  a  leap,  he  turned  to  Lucy. 

"  !My  dai'ling  !  what  have  you  been  doing  ?"  And  as  if  to 
compnnsate  her  for  his  little  knight-errant  infidelity,  he 
pressed  very  tenderly  to  her. 

"We  have  been  engaged  in  a  charming  conversation  on 
domee'-/ic  cookery,"  interposed  Adrian. 

"  Cookery  !  such  an  evening  as  this  ?"  His  face  was  a 
hands(  me  likeness  of  FIipj)ias  at  the  presentation  of  bride- 
cake. 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EPICTJEE.  321 

"  Dearest !  you  knpw  it's  very  useful,"  Lucy  mirthfully 
pleaded. 

"  Indeed  I  quite  agi'ee  with  you,  child,"  said  Lady  Judith, 
"  and  I  think  you  have  the  laugh  of  us.  I  certainly  will 
learn  to  cook  some  day." 

"  Woman's  mission,  in  so  many  words,"  ejaculated  Adrian. 

"  And  pray,  what  is  man's  ?" 

"  To  taste  thereof,  and  pronounce  thereupon." 

"  Let  us  give  it  up  to  them,"  said  Lady  Judith  to  Richard. 
"  You  and  I  never  will  make  so  delightful  and  beautifully 
balanced  a  world  of  it." 

Richard  appeared  to  have  grown  perfectly  willing  to  give 
everything  up  to  the  fair  face,  his  bridal  Hesper. 

Next  day  Lucy  had  to  act  the  coward  anew,  and  as  she 
did  so,  her  heart  sank  to  see  how  painfully  it  afFected  him 
that  she  should  hesitate  to  go  with  him  to  his  father.  He 
was  patient,  gentle ;  he  sat  down  by  her  side  to  appeal  to 
her  reason,  and  used  all  the  arguments  he  could  think  of  to 
persuade  her. 

"  If  we  go  together  and  make  him  see  us  both :  if  he  sees 
he  has  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  you — rather  everything 
to  be  proud  of ;  if  you  are  only  near  him,  you  will  not  have 
to  speak  a  word,  and  I'm  certain — as  certain  as  that  I  live- 
that  in  a  week  we  shall  be  settled  happily  at  Rajnham.  I 
know  my  father  so  well,  Lucy.     Nobody  knows  him  but  I." 

Lucy  asked  whether  Mr.  Harley  did  not. 

"  Adrian  F  Not  a  bit.  Adrian  only  knows  a  part  of 
people,  Lucy  ;  and  not  the  best  pai't." 

Lucy  was  disposed  to  think  more  highly  of  the  object  of 
her  conquest. 

"  Is  it  he  that  has  been  frightening  you,  Lucy  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Richard  ;  oh,  dear  no  !"  slie  cried,  and  looked  at 
him  more  tenderly  because  she  was  not  quite  ti'uthful. 

"  He  doesn't  know  my  father  at  all,  said  Richard.  But 
Lucy  had  another  opinion  of  the  wise  youth,  and  secretly 
maintained  it.  She  could  not  be  won  to  imagine  the  baronet 
a  man  of  human  mould,  generous,  forgiving,  full  of  pas- 
sionate love  at  heart,  as  Richard  tried  to  picture  him,  and 
thought  him,  now  that  he  beheld  him  again  through  Adrian's 
embassy.  To  her  he  was  that  awful  figure,  shwuded  by  the 
midnight.      "  Why   are   you   so   harsh  ? "    she    had    heard 

T 


322  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVERKL- 

Richard  cry  more  than  once.  She  was  sure  tliat  Adrian 
must  bo  liLrlit. 

"  Well,  1  tell  you  I  won't  go  without  you,"  said  Richard, 
and  Lucy  begged  for  a  little  more  time. 

Cupid  now  began  to  grumble,  and  with  cause.  Adrian 
positively  refused  to  go  on  the  water  unless  that  element 
were  smooth  as  a  plate.  The  South-west  still  joked  boister- 
ously  at  any  comparison  of  the  sort;  the  days  were  magniti- 
cent ;  Richard  had  yachting  engagements  ;  and  Lucy  always 
petitioned  to  stay  to  keep  Adrian  company,  conceiving  it  her 
duty  as  hostess.  Arguing  with  Adrian  was  an  absurd  idea. 
If  Richard  hinted  at  his  retaining  Lucy,  the  wise  youth 
would  remark ;  "  It's  a  wholesome  interlude  to  your  extremely 
Cupidinous  behaviour,  my  dear  boy." 

Richard  asked  his  wife  what  they  cotild  possibly  find  to 
talk  about. 

"  All  manner  of  things,"  said  Lucy ;  "  not  only  cookei-y. 
He  is  so  amusing,  though  he  does  make  fun  of  The  Pilgrim's 
SCKIP,  and  I  think  he  ought  not.  And  then,  do  you  know, 
darling — you  won't  think  me  vain  ? — I  think  he  is  beginning 
to  like  me  a  little." 

Richard  laughed  at  the  humble  mind  of  his  Beauty. 

"  Doesn't  everybody  like  you,  admire  you  ?  Doesn't  Lord 
Mountfalcon,  and  Mr.  Morton,  and  Lady  Judith  ?  " 

"  But  he  is  one  of  your  family,  Richard." 

"  And  they  all  will,  if  she  isn't  a  coward." 

"  Ah,  no  !  "  she  sighs,  and  is  chidden. 

The  conquest  of  an  epicure,  or  any  young  wife's  conquest 
beyond  her  husband,  howevei-  loyally  devised  for  their  mutual 
happiness,  may  be  costly  to  her.  Richard  in  his  hours  of 
excitement  was  thrown  very  much  with  Lady  Judith.  He 
consulted  her  regarding  what  he  termed  Lucy's  cowardice. 
Lady  Judith  said :  I  think  she's  wrong,  but  you  must  Icai-n 
to  humour  little  women." 

"  Then  would  you  advise  me  to  go  up  alone  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  cloudy  forehead. 

"  What  else  can  you  do  ?  Be  reconciled  yourself  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  You  can't  drag  her  like  a  cajjtive,  you 
know  ?  " 

It  is  not  pleasant  for  a  young  husband,  fancying  his  bride 
the  peerless  flower  of  Creation,  to  learn  that  he  must  humour 
g,  liUle  woman  in  her.     It  was  revolting  to  Richard. 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EPICURE.  323 

"What  I  fear,"  he  said,  "is  that  my  father  will  make  it 
BTQooth  with  me,  and  not  acknowledge  her :  so  that  when- 
ever I  go  to  him,  I  shall  have  to  leave  her,  and  tit  for  tat — an 
abominable  existence,  like  a  ball  on  a  billiard- table.  I  won't 
bear  that  ignominy.  And  this  I  know,  I  know!  she  might 
prevent  it  at  once,  if  she  would  only  be  brave,  and  face  it. 
You,  you,  Lady  Judith,  you  wouldn't  be  a  coward  ?  " 

"  Where  my  old  lord  tells  me  to  go,  I  go,"  the  lady  coldly 
replied.  "  There's  not  much  merit  in  that.  Pray  don't  cite 
me.     Women  are  born  cowards,  you  know." 

"  But  I  love  the  women  who  are  not  cowards." 

"  The  little  thing — your  wife  has  not  refused  to  go  ?" 

"  No — but  tears  !     Who  can  stand  tears  ?  " 

Lucy  had  come  to  drop  them.  Unaccustomed  to  have  his 
will  thwarted,  and  urgent  where  he  saw  the  thing  to  do  so 
clearly,  the  young  husband  had  spoken  strong  words  :  and 
she,  who  knew  that  she  would  have  given  her  life  by  inches 
for  him  ;  who  knew  that  she  was  playing  a  part  for  his 
happiness,  and  hiding  for  bis  sake  the  nature  that  was 
worthy  his  esteem  ;  the  poor  little  martyr  had  been  weak  a 
moment. 

She  had  Adrian's  support.  The  wise  youth  was  very 
comfortable.  He  liked  the  air  of  the  Island,  and  he  liked 
being  petted.  "  A  nice  little  woman  !  a  very  nice  little 
woman !  "  Tom  Bakewell  heard  him  murmur  to  himself 
according  to  a  habit  he  had  ;  and  his  air  of  rather  succulent 
patronage  as  he  walked  or  sat  beside  the  innocent  Beauty, 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  a  smile  that  seemed  always 
to  be  in  secret  communion  with  his  marked  abdominal  pro- 
minence, showed  that  she  was  gaining  part  of  what  she 
played  for.  Wise  youths  who  buy  their  loves,  are  not  un- 
willing, when  opportunity  offers,  to  try  and  obtain  the  com- 
modity for  nothing.  Examinations  of  her  hand,  as  for  some 
occult  purpose,  and  unctuous  pattings  of  the  same,  were  not 
infrequent.  Adrian  waxed  now  and  then  Anacreontic  in  his 
compliments.  Imcy  would  say :  "  That's  worse  than  Lord 
Mountfalcon." 

"  Better  English  than  the  noble  lord  deigns  to  employ- 
allow  that  ?  "  quoth  Adrian. 

"  He  is  very  kind,"  said  Lucy. 

*'  To  all,  save  to  our  noble  vernacular,"  added  Adrian 
"  He  seems  to  scent  a  rival  to  his  dignity  there." 

V  '/•. 


824  TnE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

It  may  be  that  Adrian  scented  a  rival  to  his  lymphatic 
emotions. 

"  We  are  at  our  ease  here  in  excellent  society,"  he  wrote 
to  Lady  Blandish.  "I  am  bound  to  confess  that  the  Huron 
has  a  lKij)i)y  fortune,  or  a  superlative  instinct.  Blindfold  ho 
has  seizeil  upon  a  suitable  mate.  She  can  look  at  a  lord,  and 
cook  for  an  epicure.  Besides  Dr.  Kitchener,  she  reads  and 
comments  on  TiiE  Pilgrim's  Scrip.  The  '  Love  '  chapter,  of 
coui-se,  takes  her  fancy.  That  picture  of  Woman,  '  Drarrn 
by  Feverence  and  coloured  by  Love,'  she  thinks  beautiful,  and 
repeats  it,  tossing  up  pretty  eyes.  Also  the  lover's  petition : 
*  Give  me  purity  to  he  icorthy  the  good  in  her,  and  grant  her 
patience  to  reach  the  good  in  me.''  'Tis  quite  taking  to  hear 
her  lisp  it.  Be  sure  that  I  am  repeating  the  petition !  I 
make  her  read  me  her  choice  passages.  She  has  not  a  bad 
voice. 

"  The  Lady  Judith  I  spoke  of  is  Austin's  Miss  Menteith 
married  to  the  incapable  old  Lord  Fclle,  or  Fellow,  as  the 
wits  here  call  him.  Lord  Mountfalcon  is  his  cousin,  and 
her — what  ?  She  has  been  trying  to  find  out,  but  they  have 
both  got  over  their  perplexity,  and  act  respectively  the  bad 
man  reproved  and  the  chaste  counsellor;  a  position  in  which 
our  young  couple  found  them,  and  haply  diverted  its  perils. 
They  have  quite  taken  them  in  hand.  Lady  Judith  under- 
takes to  cure  the  fair  Papist  of  a  pretty,  modest  trick  of 
frowning  and  blushing  when  addressed,  and  his  lordship 
directs  the  exuberant  energies  of  the  original  man.  'Tis 
thus  we  fulfil  our  destinies,  and  are  content.  Sometimes 
they  change  pupils ;  my  lord  educates  the  little  dame,  and 
ray  lady  the  hope  of  Raynham.  Joy  and  blessings  unto  all  ! 
as  the  German  poet  sings.  Lady  Judith  accepted  the  hand 
of  her  incapable  lord  that  she  might  be  of  potent  service  to 
her  fellow-creatures.  Austin,  you  know,  had  great  hopes  of 
her. 

"  I  have  for  the  first  time  in  my  career  a  field  of  lords  to 
study.  I  think  it  is  not  without  meaning  that  I  am  intro- 
duced to  it  by  a  yeoman's  niece.  The  language  of  the  two 
social  extremes  is  similar.  I  find  it  to  consist  in  an  instinct- 
ively lavish  use  of  vowels  and  adjectives.  My  lord  and 
Faimer  Blaize  speak  the  same  tongue,  only  my  lord's  lias 
lost  its  backbone,  and  is  limp,  though  fluent.  Their  puisuits 
are  identical;  but  that  one  has  money,  or,  as  the  Pilgrim 


CONQUEST  OF  AN  EriCUEE.  325 

terms  it,  vantage,  and  the  other  has  not.  Their  ideas  seem 
to  have  a  special  relationship  in  the  peculiarity  of  stopping 
where  they  have  begun.  Young  Tom  Blaize  with  vantage 
would  be  Lord  Mountfalcon.  Even  in  the  character  of  their 
parasites  I  see  a  resemblance,  though  I  am  bound  to  confess 
that  the  Hon.  Peter  Brayder,  who  is  my  lord's  parasite,  is  by 
no  means  noxious. 

"  This  sounds  dreadfully  democrat.  Pray  don't  be  alarmed. 
The  discovery  of  the  affinity  between  the  two  extremes  of  the 
Royal  British  Oak  has  made  me  thrice  conservative.  I  see 
now  that  the  national  love  of  a  lord  is  less  subservience  than 
a  form  of  self-love ;  putting  a  gold-lace  hat  on  one's  image,  as 
it  wei'e,  to  bow  to  it.  I  see,  too,  the  admirable  wisdom  of 
our  system : — could  there  be  a  finer  balance  of  power  than 
in  a  community  where  men  intellectually  nil,  have  lawful 
vantage  and  a  gold-lace  hat  on  ?  How  Boothing  it  is  to 
intellect — that  noble  rebel,  as  the  Pilgrim  has  it — to  stand, 
and  bow,  and  know  itself  superior  !  This  exquisite  compen- 
sation maintains  the  balance  :  whereas  that  period  antici- 
pated by  the  Pilginm,  when  science  shall  have  produced  an 
intellectual  aristocracy,  is  indeed  horrible  to  contemplate. 
For  what  despotism  is  so  black  as  one  the  mind  cannot 
challenge  ?  'Twill  be  an  iron  age.  Wherefore,  madam,  I 
cry,  and  shall  continue  to  cry.  ^Vivehord  Mountfalcon  !  long 
may  he  sip  his  Burgundy  I  long  may  the  bacon-fed  carry  him 
on  their  shoulders  !  ' 

"  Mr.  Morton  (who  does  me  the  honour  to  call  me  Young 
]\lephisto,  and  Socrates  missed)  leaves  to-morrow  to  get 
Master  Ralph  out  of  a  scrape.  Our  Richard  has  just  been 
elected  member  of  a  Club  for  the  promotion  of  nausea.  Is  he 
happy  ?  you  ask.  As  much  so  as  one  who  has  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  obtain  what  he  wanted  can  be.  Speed  is  his  passion. 
He  races  from  point  to  point.  In  emulation  of  Leander 
and  Don  Juan,  he  swam,  I  hear,  to  the  opposite  shoi-es 
thfi  other  day,  or  some  world-shaking  feat  of  the  sort:  him- 
self the  Hero  whom  he  went  to  meet:  or,  as  they  who  pun 
say,  his  Hero  was  a  Bet.  A  pretty  little  domestic  episode 
occurred  this  morning.  He  finds  her  abstracted  in  the  tire 
of  his  caresses:  she  turns  shy  and  seeks  solitude:  green 
jealousy  takes  hold  of  him  :  he  lies  in  wait,  and  discovers 
her  with  his  new  rival — a  veteran  edition  of  the  culinary 
Doctor!      Blind  to  the  Doctoi"'s  great  national  services,  deaf 


826  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHAKD  FEVEREL. 

to  her  wild  music,  ho  grasps  the  intruder,  dismembers  him, 
aud  peifoniis  upon  him  the  treatment  he  has  reeommeniled 
for  dressed  cucumber.  Tears  and  shrieks  accompany  the 
descent  of  the  gastronome.  Down  she  rushes  to  secure  the 
cherished  fragments :  he  follows  :  they  find  him,  true  to 
his  character,  alighted  and  stiaggling  over  a  bed  of  blooming 
flowers.  Yet  ere  a  fairer  flower  can  gather  him,  a  heel 
black  as  Pluto  stamps  him  into  earth,  flowers  and  all: — 
happy  burial !  Pathetic  tribute  to  his  merit  is  watering  his 
grave,  when  by  saunters  my  Loi'd  Mountfalcon.  '  What's 
the  mattah  ?  '  says  his  lordship,  soothing  his  moustache. 
They  break  apart,  and  'tis  left  to  me  to  explain  from  the 
window.  My  lord  looks  shocked,  Richard  is  angry  with  her 
for  having  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  Beauty  dries  her  eyes, 
and  after  a  pause  of  general  foolishness,  the  business  of  life 
is  resumed.  I  may  add  that  the  Doctor  has  just  been  dug 
up,  and  we  are  busy,  in  the  enemy's  absence,  renewing  old 
-^son  with  enchanted  threads.  By  the  way,  a  Papist  priest 
has  blest  them." 

A  month  had  passed  when  Adrian  wrote  this  letter.  He 
was  very  comfortable  ;  so  of  course  he  thought  Time  was 
doing  his  duty.  Not  a  word  did  he  say  of  Richard's  retui-n, 
and  for  some  reason  or  other  neither  Richaid  or  Lucy  spoke 
of  it  now. 

Lady  Blandish  wrote  back :  *'  His  father  thinks  he  has 
refused  to  come  to  him.  By  your  utter  silence  on  the  sub- 
ject, I  fear  that  it  must  be  so.  Make  him  come.  Bring  him 
by  force.  Insist  on  his  coming.  Is  he  mad  ?  He  must 
come  at  once." 

To  this  Adrian  replied,  after  a  contemplative  comfortable 
lapse  of  a  day  or  two,  which  might  be  laid  to  his  efforts  to 
adopt  the  lady's  advice,  "  The  point  is  that  the  half  man 
declines  to  come  without  the  whole  man.  The  terrible 
question  of  sex  is  our  obstruction." 

Lady  Blandish  was  in  despair.  She  had  no  positive 
assurance  that  the  baronet  would  see  his  son ;  the  mask  put 
them  all  in  the  dark  ;  but  she  thought  she  saw  in  Sir  Austin 
irritation  that  the  offender,  at  least  when  the  opening  to 
come  and  make  his  peace  seemed  to  be  before  him,  should 
let  days  and  w-eeks  go  by.  She  saw  through  the  mask  suffi- 
ciently not  to  have  any  hope  of  his  consenting  to  receive  the 
couple  at  present ;  she  was  sure  that  his  equanimity  was  fie- 


Clare's  maemage.  327 

titious ;    but  ste   pierced   no  farther,    or    she   might   have 
started  and  asked  herself,  Is  this  the  heart  of  a  woman  ? 

The  lady  at  last  wrote  to  Richard.  She  said:  "Come 
instantly,  and  come  alone."  Then  Richard,  against  his 
judgment,  gave  way.  "  My  father  is  not  the  man  I  thought 
him  !  "  he  exclaimed  sadly,  and  Lucy  felt  his  eyes  saying  to 
her:  "And  you,  too,  are  not  the  woman  I  thought  you." 
Nothiug  could  the  poor  little  heart  reply  but  strain  to  his 
bosom  and  sleeplessly  pray  in  his  arms  all  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Clare's  marriage. 


Three  weeks  after  Richard  arrived  in  town,  his  cousin 
Clare  was  married,  under  the  blessings  of  her  enei'getio 
mother,  and  with  the  approbation  of  her  kinsfolk,  to  the 
husband  that  had  been  expeditiously  chosen  for  her.  The 
gentleman,  though  something  more  than  twice  the  age  of  his 
bi-ide,  had  no  idea  of  approaching  senility  for  many  long  con- 
nubial years  to  come.  Backed  by  his  tailor  and  his  hair- 
dresser, he  presented  no  such  bad  figure  at  the  altar,  and 
none  would  have  thought  that  he  was  an  ancient  admirer  of 
his  bride's  mama,  as  certainly  none  knew  he  had  lately  pro- 
posed for  Mrs.  Doria  before  there  was  any  question  of  her 
daughter.  These  things  were  secrets ;  and  the  elastic  and 
happy  appearance  of  Mr.  John  Todhunter  did  not  betray 
them  at  the  altar.  Pei'haps  he  would  rather  have  mai-ried 
the  mother.  He  was  a  man  of  property,  well  born,  tolerably 
well  educated,  and  had,  when  Mis.  Doria  rejected  him  for 
the  first  time,  the  reputation  of  being  a  fool — which  a 
wealthy  man  may  have  in  his  youth  ;  but  as  he  lived  on, 
and  did  not  squander  his  money — amassed  it,  on  the  con- 
trary, and  did  not  seek  to  go  into  Parliament,  and  did  other 
negative  wise  things,  the  world's  opinion,  as  usual,  veered 
completely  round,  and  John  Todhunter  was  esteemed  a 
shrewd,  sensible  man — only  not  brilliant ;  that  he  wi)S  bril- 
liant could  not  be  said  of  him.  In  fact,  the  man  could 
hardly  talk,  and  it  was  a  fortunate  provision  that  no  im« 


328  TIIH  ORDINAL  OF  RICIIARD  FEVEREL. 

pi-omptu  deliveries  wore  required  of  him  in  the  marriage- 
Bervice. 

!Mis.  Doria  had  her  own  reasons  for  being  in  a  hurry.  She 
had  discovered  something  of  the  strange  impassive  nature  of 
her  child  ;  not  from  any  confession  of  Clare's,  but  from  signs 
a  mother  can  read  when  her  eyes  are  not  resolutely  shut. 
She  saw  with  alarm  and  anguish  Clare  had  fallen  into  the 
pit  she  had  been  digging  for  her  so  laboriously.  In  vain  she 
entreated  the  baronet  to  break  the  disgraceful,  and,  as  she 
said,  illegal  alliance  his  son  had  contracted.  Sir  Austin 
would  not  even  stop  the  little  pension  to  poor  Berry.  "  At 
least  you  will  do  that,  Austin,"  she  begged  pathetically. 
"  You  will  show  your  sense  of  that  horrid  woman's  con- 
duct ?  "  He  i-efused  to  oft'er  up  any  victim  to  console  her. 
Then  Mrs.  Doria  told  him  her  thoughts, — and  when  an  out- 
raged energetic  lady  is  finally  brought  to  exhibit  these  pain- 
fully hoarded  treasures,  she  does  not  use  half  words  as  a 
medium.  His  System,  and  his  conduct  generally,  were 
denounced  to  him,  without  analysis.  She  let  him  under- 
stand that  the  world  laughed  at  him ;  and  he  heard  this 
from  her  at  a  time  when  his  mask  was  still  soft  and  liable  to 
be  acted  on  by  his  nerves.  "  You  are  weak,  Austin  !  weak, 
T  tell  you  !  "  she  said,  and,  like  all  angry  and  self-interested 
people,  prophecy  came  easy  to  her.  In  her  heart  she  accused 
him  of  her  own  fault,  in  imputing  to  him  the  wreck  of  her 
project.  The  baronet  allowed  her  to  revel  in  the  proclama- 
tion of  a  dire  future,  and  quietly  counselled  her  to  keep 
apart  from  him,  which  his  sister  assured  him  she  would  do. 

But  to  be  passive  in  calamity  is  the  province  of  no  woman. 
[Mark  the  race  at  any  hour.  "  What  revolution  and  hubbub 
does  not  that  little  instrument,  the  needle,  avert  from  us  !  " 
says  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip.  Alas,  that  in  calamity  women 
cannot  stitch  !  Now  that  she  saw  Clare  wanted  other  than 
iron,  it  struck  her  she  must  have  a  husband,  and  be  made 
secure  as  a  woman  and  a  wife.  This  seemed  the  thing  to  do  : 
and,  as  she  had  forced  the  iron  down  Clare's  throat,  so  she 
forced  the  husband,  and  Clare  gulped  at  the  latter  as  she  had 
at  the  former.  On  the  very  day  that  Mrs.  Doria  had  this 
new  track  shaped  out  before  her,  John  Todhunter  called  at 
the  Foreys.  "  Old  John  !  "  sang  out  Mrs.  Doria,  "  show  him 
up  to  me.  I  want  to  see  him  particularly."  He  sat  with 
ber  alone.     He  was  a  man  multitudes  of  women  would  have 


clake's  maeeiage.  329 

married — whom  will  they  not  ? — and  who  would  have  mar- 
ried any  presentable  woman :  but  women  do  want  asking, 
and  John  never  had  the  word.  The  rape  of  such  men  is  left 
to  the  practical  animal.  So  John  sat  alone  with  his  old 
flame.  He  had  become  resigned  to  her  perpetual  lamenta- 
tion and  living  Suttee  for  his  defunct  rival.  But,  ha  !  what 
meant  those  soft  glances  now — addressed  to  him  ?  His 
tailor  and  his  hairdresser  gave  youth  to  John,  but  they  had 
not  the  art  to  bestow  upon  him  distinction,  and  an  undis- 
tinguished man  what  woman  looks  at  ?  John  was  an  indis- 
tinguishable man.  For  that  reason  he  was  dry  wood  to  a 
soft  glance.  He  was  quickly  incandescent.  He  proposed, 
at  the  close  of  an  hour's  conflagration,  thus  :  "  Aren't  you 
ever  going  to  change  your  state,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  never,  indeed  !  "  the  fair  widow  replied. 

"  Then  it's  a  shame,"  muttered  John,  thinking  how  many 
children  and  cries  of  "  Papa  "  this  woman — to  whom  he  fan- 
cied he  had  been  constant,  utterly  devoted — owed  him. 

Ere  he  could  fall  back  upon  his  accustomed  resignation, 
Mrs.  Doria  had  assured  the  man  that  she  knew  of  no  one  who 
would  make  so  good  a  husband,  no  one  she  would  like  so 
well  to  have  related  to  her. 

"  And  you  ought  to  be  married,  John :  you  know  you 
ought." 

"  But  if  I  can't  have  her  ?  "  returned  John,  staring  stupidly 
at  her  enigmatical  forefinger. 

"  Well,  well !  might  you  not  have  something  better  ?  " 

Mr.  Todhunter  gallantly  denied  the  possibility  of  that. 

"  Something  younger  is  something  better,  John.  No.  I'm 
not  young,  and  I  intend  to  remain  what  I  am.  Put  me  by. 
You  must  marry  a  young  woman,  John.  You  are  well  pre- 
served— younger  than  most  of  the  young  men  of  our  day. 
You  are  eminently  domestic,  a  good  son,  and  will  be  a  good 
husband  and  good  father.  Some  one  you  must  marry. — 
What  do  you  think  of  Clare  for  a  wife  for  you  ?  " 

At  first  John  Todhunter  thought  it  would  be  very  much 
like  his  mai-rying  a  baby.  However,  he  listened  to  it,  and 
that  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Doria.  "  I'll  do  the  wooing  for 
you,  John,"  she  said. 

She  did  more.  She  went  down  to  John's  mother,  and 
consulted  with  her  ontlic  pi-opriety  of  the  scheme  of  wedding 
her  daughter  to  John  in  accordance  with  his    proposition 


330  TIIK  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

Mrs.  Todhuntcr's  jealousy  of  any  disturbing  force  in  the 
influence  she  held  over  her  son  ]\Ii-s.  Doria  knew  to  be  one  cf 
the  causes  of  John's  remaining  constant  to  the  impression 
she  had  aforetime  produced  on  him.  She  spoke  so  kindly 
of  John,  and  laid  so  much  stress  on  the  ingrained  obedience 
and  passive  disposition  of  her  daughter,  that  Mrs.  Todhunter 
was  led  to  admit  she  did  think  it  almost  time  John  should 
be  seeking  a  mate,  and  that  he — all  things  considered — 
■would  hardly  find  a  fitter  one.  And  this,  John  Todhunter — 
old  John  no  more — heard  to  his  amazement  when,  a  day  or 
two  subsequently,  he  instanced  the  probable  disapproval  of 
his  mother. 

The  match  was  arranged.  Mrs.  Doria  did  the  wooing.  It 
consisted  in  telling  Clare  that  she  had  come  to  years  when 
marriage  was  desireable,  and  that  she  had  fallen  into  habits 
of  moping  which  might  have  the  worse  effect  on  her  future 
life,  as  it  had  on  her  present  health  and  appearance,  and 
which  a  husband  would  cure.  Richard  was  told  by  Mrs. 
Doria  that  Clare  had  instantaneously  consented  to  accept 
Mr.  John  Todhunter  as  lord  of  her  days,  and  with  more  than 
obedience — with  alacrity.  At  all  events,  when  Richard  spoke 
to  Clare,  the  strange  passive  creature  did  not  admit  con- 
straint on  her  inclinations.  Mrs.  Doria  allowed  Richard  to 
speak  to  her.  She  laughed  at  his  futile  endeavours  to  undo 
her  work,  and  the  boyish  sentiments  he  uttered  on  the  sub- 
ject. "  Let  us  see,  child,"  she  said,  "  let  us  see  which  turns 
out  the  best ;  a  marriage  of  passion,  or  a  marriage  of  common 
sense." 

Heroic  efforts  were  not  wanting  to  arrest  the  uniou 
Richard  made  repeated  journeys  to  Hounslow,  where  Ralph 
was  quartered,  and  if  Ralph  could  have  been  persuaded  to 
carry  off  a  young  lady  who  did  not  love  him,  from  the  bride- 
groom her  mother  averred  she  did  love,  Mrs.  Doria  might 
have  been  defeated.  But  Ralph  in  his  cavalry  quarters  was 
cooler  than  Ralph  in  the  Bursley  meadows.  "  Women  are 
oddities,  Dick,"  he  remarked,  running  a  finger  right  and  left 
along  his  upper  lip.  "  Best  leave  them  to  their  own  freaks. 
She's  a  dear  girl,  though  she  don't  talk:  I  like  her  for  that. 
If  she  cared  for  mc  I'd  go  the  race.  She  don't,  and  never 
did.  It's  no  use  asking  a  girl  twice.  She  knows  whether 
she  cares  a  fig  for  a  fellow.  My  belief,  Mr,  Dick,  is,  that 
she's  in  love  with  you,  if  it's  anybody." 


claee's  maeriage,  331 

The  hero  quitted  him  with  some  contempt,  saying  to  him. 
self,  "  I  believe  he's  nothing  more  than  an  embroidered 
jacket  now."  But  as  Ralph  Morton  was  a  young  man,  and 
he  had  determined  that  John  Todhunter  was  an  old  man,  he 
sought  another  private  interview  with  Clare,  and  getting 
her  alono,  said  :  "  Clare,  I've  come  to  you  for  the  last  time. 
Will  you  marry  Ralph  Morton  ?  " 

To  which  Clare  replied,  "  I  cannot  marry  two  husbands, 
Richard." 

"  Will  you  refuse  to  marry  this  old  man  ?  " 

"  I  must  do  as  mama  wishes." 

"  Then  you're  going  to  marry  an  old  man — a  man  you 
don't  love,  and  can't  love  !  Oh,  good  God  !  do  you  know 
what  you're  doing  ?  "  He  flung  about  in  a  fury.  "Do  you 
know  what  it  is  ?  Clare  !"  he  caught  her  two  hands  violently, 
"  have  you  any  idea  of  the  horror  you're  going  to  commit  ?" 

She  shrank  a  little  at  his  vehemence,  but  neither  blushed 
nor  stammered :  answering :  "  I  see  nothing  wrong  in  doing 
what  mama  thinks  right,  Richard." 

"  Tour  mother  !  I  tell  you  it's  an  infamy,  Clare  !  It's  a 
miserable  sin !  I  tell  you,  if  I  had  done  such  a  thing  I  would 
not  live  an  hour  after  it.  And  coldly  to  prepare  for  it !  to  be 
busy  about  your  dresses  !  They  told  me  when  I  came  in  that 
you  were  with  the  milliner.  To  be  smiling  over  the  horrible 
outrage  '  decorating  yourself  !".,..  He  burst  into  tears. 

"  Dear  Richard,"  said  Clare,  "  you  will  make  me  very  un- 
happy." 

"  That  one  of  my  blood  should  be  so  debased  !  "  he  cried, 
brushing  angrily  at  his  face.  "  Unhappy  !  I  beg  you  to 
feel  for  yourself,  Clare.  But  I  sup])Ose,"  and  he  said  it 
scornfully,  "  girls  don't  feel  this  sort  of  shame." 

She  gi'cw  a  trifle  paler. 

"  Next  to  mama,  I  would  wish  to  please  you,  dear 
Richard." 

"  Have  you  no  will  of  your  own  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  softly  ;  a  look  he  interpreted  for  the 
meekness  he  detested  in  her. 

"  No,  I  believe  you  have  none  !  "  he  added.  "  And  what 
can  I  do  ?  I  can't  step  forward  and  stop  this  accursed  mar- 
riage. If  you  would  but  say  a  word  1  would  save  you  ;  but 
you  tie  my  hands.  And  they  expect  me  to  stand  by  and  see 
it  done  ! " 


232  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

"Will  yon  not  be  there,  Richard  ?"  said  Clare,  following 
the  question  with  her  soft  eyes.  It  was  the  same  voice  that 
had  so  tlirillod  him  on  his  marriage-morn. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  Clare  !  "  he  cried  in  the  kindest  way  he 
had  ever  used  to  her,  "  if  you  knew  how  I  feel  this ! "  and 
now  as  he  wept  she  wept,  and  came  insensibly  into  his  arms. 
"  My  darling  Clare  !  "  he  repeated. 

She  said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  shudder,  weeping. 

"  You  trill  do  it,  Clare  ?  You  will  be  sacrificed  ?  So 
lovely  as  you  are,  too  !     Oh!  to  think  of  that  mouth  being 

given    over    to O   curses  of  hell  !    to  think 

Clare  !  you  cannot  be  quite  blind.  If  I  dared  speak  to  you, 
and  tell  you  all Look  up.     Can  you  still  consent  ?  " 

"  I  must  not  disobey  mama,"  Clare  murmured,  without 
looking  up  from  the  nest  her  cheek  had  made  on  his  bosom. 

"  Then  kiss  me  for  the  last  time,"  said  Richard.  "  I'll 
never  kiss  you  after  it,  Clare." 

He  bent  his  head  to  meet  her  mouth,  and  she  threw  her 
arms  wildly  round  him,  and  kissed  him  convulsively,  and 
clung  to  his  lips,  shutting  her  eyes,  her  face  suffused  with  a 
burning  red. 

Then  he  left  her,  unawai-e  of  the  meaning  of  those  passion- 
ate kisses. 

Argument  vnih  !Mrs.  Doria  was  like  firing  paper-pellets 
against  a  stone  wall.  To  her  indeed  the  young  married 
hei'o  spoke  almost  indecorously,  and  that  which  his  delicacy 
withheld  him  from  speaking  to  Clare.  He  could  provoke 
nothing  more  responsive  from  the  practical  animal  than 
"  Pooh-pooh  !     Tush,  tush  !  and  Fiddlededee  !  " 

"  Really,"  Mrs.  Doria  said  to  her  intimates,  "  that  boy's 
education  acts  like  a  disease  on  him.  He  cannot  regard  any- 
thing sensibly.  He  is  for  ever  in  some  mad  excess  of  his 
fancy,  lend  what  he  will  come  to  at  last  heaven  only  knows ! 
1  sincerely  pray  that  Austin  will  bo  able  to  bear  it." 

Threats  of  pi-ayer,  however,  that  harp  upon  their  sincerity, 
are  no't  very  well  worth  having.  Mrs.  Doria  had  embarked 
in  a  piactical  fontrovcrsy,  as  it  were,  with  her  brother. 
Doubtless  she  did  trust  he  would  be  able  to  bear  his  sorrows 
to  come,  but  one  who  has  uttered  prophecy  can  barely  help 
hoping  to  see  it  fulfilled :  she  had  prophesied  much  grief  to 
the  baronet. 

Poor  John  Todhuuter,  who  would  rather  have  mai-ried  the 


Clare's  mareiage.  633 

mother,  and  had  none  of  your  heroic  notions  about  the 
sacred  necessity  for  love  in  marriage,  moved  as  one  guiltless 
of  offence,  and  that  deserves  his  happiness.  Mrs.  Doria 
shielded  him  from  the  hero.  To  see  him  smile  at  Clare's 
obedient  figure,  and  try  not  to  look  paternal,  was  touching. 

Meantime  Clare's  marriage  served  one  purpose.  It  com- 
pletely occupied  Richard's  mind,  and  prevented  him  from 
chafing  at  the  vexation  of  not  finding  his  father  ready  to 
meet  him  when  he  came  to  town.  A  letter  had  awaited 
Adrian  at  the  hotel,  which  said,  "Detain  him  till  you  hear 
further  from  me.  Take  him  about  with  you  into  every  form 
of  society."  No  more  than  that.  Adrian  had  to  extemporize 
that  the  baronet  had  gone  down  to  Wales  on  pressing  busi- 
ness, and  would  be  back  in  a  week  or  so.  For  ulterior 
inventions  and  devices  wherewith  to  keep  the  young  gentle- 
man in  town,  he  applied  to  Mi-s.  Doria.  "  Leave  him  to  me," 
said  Mrs.  Doria,  "  I'll  manage  him."     And  she  did. 

"Who  can  say,"  asks  The  Pilgrim's  Scrip,  "when  he  is 
not  walking  a  puppet  to  some  woman  ?  " 

Mi-s.  Doria  would  hear  no  good  of  Lucy.  "  I  believe,"  she 
observed,  as  Adrian  ventured  a  shrugging  protest  in  her 
behalf, — "  it  is  my  firm  opinion  that  a  scullery-maid  would 
turn  any  of  you  men  round  her  little  finger — only  give  her 
time  and  opportunity."  By  dwelling  on  the  arts  of  women, 
she  reconciled  it  to  her  conscience  to  do  her  best  to  divide 
the  young  husband  from  his  wife  till  it  pleased  his  father 
they  should  live  their  unhallowed  union  again.  Without 
compunction,  or  a  sense  of  incongruity,  she  abused  her 
brother  and  assisted  the  fulfilment  of  his  behests. 

So  the  puppets  were  marshalled  by  Mrs.  Doria,  happy,  or 
sad,  or  indifferent.  Quite  against  his  set  resolve  and  the  tide 
of  his  feelings,  Richard  found  himself  standing  behind  Clare 
in  the  church — the  very  edifice  that  had  witnessed  his  own 
marriage,  and  heard,  "  I,  Clare  Doria,  take  thee  John  Pem- 
berton,"  clearly  pronounced.  He  stood  with  black  brows  dis- 
secting the  arts  of  the  tailor  and  hairdresser  on  unconscious 
John.  The  back,  and  much  of  the  middle,  of  Mr.  Tod- 
hunter's  head  was  bald  ;  the  back  shone  like  an  egg-shell, 
but  across  the  middle  the  artist  had  drawn  two  long  dabs  of 
hair  from  the  sides,  and  plastered  them  cunningly,  so  that 
all  save  wilful  eyes  would  have  acknowledged  the  head  to  be 
covered.     The  man's  OJily  [)rctcnsion  was   to  a   resj)cctable 


834  THE  OTIDEAL  OF  RTCnAKP  FEVERKL. 

juvcnilitj.  TTo  had  a  pnoil  clicst,  stout,  limbs,  a  fai'c  incHnc<3 
to  be  jolly.  Mrs.  Doria  bad  no  cause  to  be  put  out  of  coun- 
tenance at  all  by  the  exterior  of  her  son-in-law  :  nor  was  she. 
Her  splendid  hair  and  g'ratified  smile  made  a  liyht  in  the 
church.  Playinfj^  puppets  must  be  an  immense  pleasure  to 
the  practical  animal.  The  Forey  bridesmaids,  five  in  num. 
ber,  and  one  Miss  Doria,  their  cousin,  stood  as  girls  do  stand 
at  these  sacrifices,  whether  happy,  sad,  or  indifferent ;  a  smilo 
on  their  lips  and  tears  in  attendance.  Old  Mrs.  Todhuntcr, 
an  exceedingly  small  ancient  woman,  was  also  there.  "  I 
can't  have  my  boy  John  married  without  seeing  it  done,"  she 
said,  and  throughout  the  ceremony  she  was  muttering  audible 
encomiums  on  her  boy  John's  manly  behaviour. 

The  ring  was  afhxed  to  Clare's  finger;  there  was  no  ring 
lost  in  this  common-sense  marriage.  John  had  his  disen- 
gaged hand  at  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  the  instant  the 
clergyman  bade  him  employ  it,  he  drew  the  ring  out,  and 
droj)pcd  it  on  the  finger  of  the  cold  passive  hand  in  a  busi- 
ness-like  way,  as  one  who  had  studied  the  matter.  Mrs. 
Doria  glanced  aside  at  Richard.  Richard  observed  Clare 
spread  out  her  fingers  that  the  operations  might  be  the  more 
easily  effected. 

He  did  duty  in  the  vestry  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said  to 
his  aunt : 

"  Now  I'll  go." 

"  You'll  come  to  the  breakfast,  child  ?     The  Foreys  " 

He  cut  her  short.  *'  I've  stood  for  the  family,  and  I'll 
do  no  more.  I  won't  pretend  to  eat  and  make  merry  over 
it." 

"  Richard !" 

"Good-bye." 

She  had  attained  her  object,  and  she  wisely  gave  way. 

*'•  Well.  Go  and  kiss  Clare,  and  shake  his  hand.  Pray, 
pray  be  civil." 

She  turned  to  Adrian,  and  said  :  "  He  is  going.  You 
must  go  with  him,  and  find  some  means  of  keeping  him,  or 
he'll  be  running  off  to  that  woman.     Now,  no  words — go  !" 

Richard  bade  Clare  farewell.  She  put  up  her  mo'ith  to 
him  humbly,  but  he  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  Do  not  cease  to  love  me,"  she  said  in  a  quavering  whisper 
in  his  ear. 

Mr.  Todhunter  stood  beaming  and  endangering  the  ar'.  of 


Clare's  maeriage.  335 

the  hairdresser  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  "Now  he  posi- 
tively was  married,  he  thought  he  would  rather  have  the 
daughter  than  the  mother,  which  is  a  reverse  of  the  order 
of  human  thankfulness  at  a  gift  of  the  Gods. 

"  Richard,  my  boy  !"  he  said  heartily,  "  congratulate  me." 

"  I  should  be  happy  to,  if  I  could,"  sedately  replied  the 
hero,  to  the  consternation  of  those  around.  Nodding  to  the 
bridesmaids  and  bowing  to  the  old  lady,  he  passed  out. 

Adrian,  who  had  been  behind  him,  deputed  to  watch  for 
a  possible  unpleasantness,  just  hinted  to  John:  "  You  know, 
poor  fellow,  he  has  got  into  a  mess  with  his  marriage." 

"  Oh  !  ah  !  yes  !"  kindly  said  John,  "  poor  fellow  !" 

All  the  puppets  then  rolled  off  to  the  breakfast. 

Adrian  hurried  after  Richard  in  an  extremely  discontented 
state  of  mind.  Not  to  be  at  the  breakfast  and  see  the  best  of 
the  fun,  disgusted  him.  However,  he  remembered  that  he 
was  a  philosopher,  and  the  strong  disgust  he  felt  was  only 
expressed  in  concentrated  cynicism  on  every  earthly  matter 
engendered  by  the  conversation.  They  walked  side  by  side 
into  Kensington  Gardens.  The  hero  was  mouthing  away  to 
himself,  talking  by  fits. 

Presently  he  faced  Adrian,  crying  :  '*  And  I  might  have 
stopped  it !  I  see  it  now  !  I  might  have  stopped  it  by  going 
straight  to  him,  and  asking  him  if  he  dared  marry  a  girl 
who  did  not  love  him.  And  I  never  thought  of  it.  Good 
heaven !     I  feel  this  miserable  affair  on  my  conscience." 

"  Ah  !"  went  Adrian.  "  An  unpleasant  cargo  for  the  con- 
science, that !  I  would  rather  carry  anything  on  mine  than 
a  married  couple.     Do  you  purpose  going  to  him  now  ?" 

The  hero  soliloquized  :  "  He's  not  a  bad  sort  of  man.   .  .  ." 

"  Well,  he's  not  a  Cavalier,"  said  Adrian,  "  and  that's 
why  you  wonder  your  aunt  selected  him,  no  doubt  ?  He's 
decidedly  of  the  Roundhead  type,  with  the  Puritan  extracted, 
or  inoffensive,  if  latent." 

"  There's  the  double  infamy  !"  cried  Richai'd,  "  that  a  man 
you  can't  call  bad,  should  do  this  damned  thing!" 

"  Well,  it's  hard  we  can't  find  a  villain." 

"  He  would  have  listened  to  me,  I'm  sure." 

"  Go  to  him  now,  Richnrd,  my  son.  Go  to  him  now.  It's 
not  yet  too  late.  Who  knows  ?  If  he  really  has  a  noble 
elevated  superior  mind — though  not  a  Cavalier  in  porsoM,  he 
may  be  one  at  heart — he  might,  to  please  you,  and  since  yoii 


3.'^6  THE  OTiDKAL  OF  KU'lIAItn  FFA'KRKL. 

put  such  stress  upon  it,  abstain  .  .  .  perhaps  wilh  some 
Idss  of  tlitrnity,  but  never  mind.  And  the  reqne.st  nii'_;lit  be 
siiiLjular,  or  seem  so,  but  everything'  has  hai)pened  before  in 
this  world,  you  know,  my  dear  boy.  And  what  an  inrlnito 
consohition  it  is  for  the  eccentric,  tliat  reflection  !" 

The  hero  was  impervious  to  the  wise  youth.  He  stared  afc 
him  as  if  he  were  but  a  speck  in  the  universe  he  visionc^d. 

It  was  provoking  that  Richard  should  be  Adiian's  best 
subject  for  cynical  pastime,  in  the  extraordinary  heterodoxies 
he  started,  and  his  worst  in  the  way  he  took  it ;  and  the  wise 
youth,  against  his  will,  had  to  feel  as  conscious  of  the  young 
man's  imaginative  mental  armour,  as  he  was  of  his  muscular 
physical. 

"  The  same  sort  of  day  !"  mused  Richard,  looking  up.  "  T 
suppose  my  father's  right.  We  make  our  own  fates,  and 
nature  has  nothing  to  do  with  it," 

Adrian  yawned. 

"  Some  difference  in  the  trees,  though,"  Richard  continued 
abstractedly. 

"  Growing  bald  at  the  top,"  said  Adrian.  "  Do  they 
suggest  the  bridegroom  to  you  ?" 

"  Will  you  believe  that  my  aunt  Helen  compared  the 
conduct  of  that  w^retched  slave  Clare  to  Lucy's,  who.  she 
had  the  cruel  insolence  to  say,  entangled  me  into  marriage  ?" 
the  hero  broke  out  loudly  and  rapidly.  "You  know — I  told 
you,  Adrian — how  I  had  to  threaten  and  insist,  and  how  she 
pleaded,  and  implored  me  to  wait." 

"  Ah  !  hum  !"  went  Adrian. 

"  Don't  you  i-emember  my  telling  you  ?"  Richard  w^as 
earnest  to  hear  her  exonerated. 

"  Pleaded  and  implored,  my  dear  boy  ?  Oh,  no  doubt  she 
did.     Where's  the  lass  that  doesn't." 

"  Call  my  wife  by  another  name,  if  you  please." 

"The  generic  title  can't  be  cancelled  because  of  your 
having  married  one  of  the  body,  my  son." 

"  She  did  all  she  could  to  persuade  me  to  wait !"  empha- 
Bized  Richard. 

Adrian  shook  his  head  with  a  deplorable  smile. 

*'  Come,  come,  my  good  Ricky ;  not  all !  not  all  !" 

Richard  bellowed  :  "  What  more  could  she  have  done  ?" 

"  She  could  have  shaved  her  head,  for  instance." 

This  happy  shaft  did  stick.     With  a  fuiious  exclamation 


clahe's  MAnrviAGE.  337 

Riclinrd  shot  in  front,  Adrian  following  him;  and  aslcirgliim 
(merely  to  have  his  assumption  verified),  whether  he  did  not 
til  ink  she  might  have  shaved  her  head  ?  and,  presuming  her 
to  have  done  so,  whether,  in  candour,  he  did  not  tliink  he 
would  have  waited — at  least  till  she  looked  less  of  a  rank 
lunatic  ? 

After  a  minute  or  so,  the  wise  youth  was  but  a  fly  buzzing 
about  Richard's  head.  Three  weeks  of  separation  from 
Lucy,  and  an  excitement  deceased,  caused  him  to  have  soft 
yearnings  for  the  dear  lovely  home-face.  He  told  Adrian  it 
was  his  intention  to  go  down  that  night.  Adrian  imme- 
diately became  serious.  He  was  at  a  loss  what  to  invent  to 
detain  him,  beyond  the  stale  fiction  that  his  father  was 
coming  to-morrow.  He  rendered  homage  to  the  genius  of 
woman  in  these  straits.  "  My  aunt,"  he  thought,  "  would 
have  the  lie  ready;  and  not  only  that,  but  she  would  take 
care  it  did  its  work." 

At  this  juncture  the  voice  of  a  cavalier  in  the  Row  hailed 
them,  proving  to  be  the  Honourable  Peter  Brayder,  Lord 
Mountfalcon's  parasite.  He  greeted  tliem  very  cordially; 
and  Richard,  remembering  some  fun  they  had  in  the  Island, 
asked  him  to  dine  with  them;  postponing  his  return  till  the 
next  day.  Lucy  was  his.  It  was  even  sweet  to  dally  with 
the  delight  of  seeing  her. 

The  Hon.  Peter  was  one  who  did  honour  to  the  body  he 
belonged  to.  Though  not  so  tall  as  a  West  of  London  foot- 
man, he  was  as  shapely;  and  he  had  a  power  of  making  his 
voice  insinuating,  or  arrogant,  as  it  suited  the  exigencies  of 
his  profession.  He  had  not  a  rap  of  money  in  the  world ; 
yet  he  rode  a  horse,  Hved  high,  expended  largely.  The 
world  said  that  the  Hon.  Peter  was  salaried  by  his  Lord- 
Bhip,  and  that,  in  common  with  that  of  Parasite,  he  exercised 
the  ancient  companion  profession.  This  the  world  said,  and 
still  smiled  at  the  Hon.  Peter  ;  for  he  was  an  engaging 
fellow,  and  where  he  went  not  Lord  Mountialcon  would 
not  go. 

They  had  a  quiet  little  hotel  dinner,  ordered  by  Adrian, 
and  made  a  square  at  the  table,  Ripton  Thompson  being  the 
fourth.  Richard  sent  down  to  his  office  to  fetch  him,  and 
the  two  friends  shook  hands  for  the  first  time  since  the  great 
deed  had  been  executed.  Deep  was  t'ne  Old  Dog's  delight  to 
hoar  the  praises  of  his  Beauty  sounded  by  such  aristocratic 

/ 


838  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICIIARD  FKVRIIRL. 

lips  as  the  Hon.  Peter  Brayder's.  All  throncfh  tho  tlliiiior 
he  was  thi'owing  out  hints  and  small  queries  to  get  a  lullcr 
account  of  her;  and  wlieu  the  claret  had  circulated,  he  s))ol;e 
a  word  or  two  himself,  and  heard  the  lion.  Peter  eulogize 
liis  taste,  and  wish  him  a  bride  as  beautiful ;  at  whirh 
liipton  blushed,  and  said,  he  had  no  hope  of  that,  and 
the  Hon.  Peter  assured  him  marriage  did  not  break  the 
mould. 

After  the  wine  the  Hon.  Peter  took  his  cigar  on  the 
balcony,  and  found  occasion  to  get  some  conversation  with 
Adrian  alone. 

"  Our  young  friend  here — made  it  all  right  with  the 
governor  ?  "  he  asked  carelessly. 

"  Oh  yes!  "  said  Adrian.  But  it  struck  him  that  Brayder 
might  be  of  assistance  in  showing  Richard  a  little  of  the 
'  society  in  every  form '  required  by  his  chief's  prescript. 
*'  That  is,"  he  continued,  "  we  are  not  yet  permitted  an 
interview  with  the  august  author  of  our  being,  and  I  have 
rather  a  difficult  post.  'Tis  mine  both  to  keep  him  here,  and 
also  to  find  him  the  opportunity  to  measure  himself  with 
his  fellow-man.  In  other  words,  his  father  wants  him  to  see 
something  of  life  before  he  enters  upon  housekeeping.  Now 
I  am  proud  to  confess  that  I'm  hardly  equal  to  the  task. 
The  demi,  or  damnedmonde — if  it's  that  he  wants  him  to 
observe — is  one  that  I  have  not  got  the  walk  to." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  laughed  Brayder.  "  You  do  the  keeping,  I 
offer  to  parade  the  demi.  I  must  say,  though,  it's  a  queer 
notion  of  the  old  gentleman." 

"  It's  the  continuation  of  a  philosophic  plan,"  said 
Adrian. 

Brayder  followed  the  curvings  of  the  whiff  of  his  ciga/" 
with  his  eyes,  and  ejaculated,  "  Infahnally  philosophic  !  " 

"  Has  Lord  Mountfalcon  left  the  island  ? "  Adrian  in- 
quired. 

"  Mount  ?  to  tell  the  truth  I  don't  know  where  he  is. 
Chasing  some  light  ci-aft,  I  suppose.  That's  poor  Mount's 
■weakness.  It's  his  ruin,  poor  fellow  !  He's  so  confoundedly 
in  earnest  at  the  game." 

"  He  ought  to  know  it  by  this  time,  if  fame  speaks  true," 
remarked  Adrian. 

"  He's  a  baby  about  women,  and  always  will  be,"  said 
Brayder.    "  He's  been  once  or  twice  wanting  to  marry  them. 


CLABE'S  MAERIAGE.  339 

Now  there's  a  woman — you've  heard  of  Mrs.  Mount  ?  All 
the  world  knows  her. — If  that  woman  hadn't  scandalized." — 
The  young  man  joined  them,  and  checked  the  communica- 
tion. Brayder  winked  to  Adi-ian,  and  pitifully  indicated  the 
presence  of  an  innocent. 

"A  married  man,  you  know,"  said  Adrian. 

"  Yes,  yes  ! — but  we  won't  shock  him,"  Brayder  observed, 
patting  Richard  on  the  back.  He  appeared  to  study  the 
young  man  while  they  talked. 

Next  morning  Richai-d  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  his 
aunt.  Mrs.  Doria  took  a  seat  by  his  side,  and  spoke  as 
follows  : 

"  My  dear  nephew.  Now  you  know  I  have  always  loved 
you,  and  thought  of  your  welfare  as  if  you  had  been  my  own 
child.  More  than  that,  I  fear.  Well,  now,  you  are  thinking 
of  returning  to — to  that  place — -are  you  not  ?  Yes.  It  is  as 
I  thought.  Very  well  now,  let  me  speak  to  you.  You  are  in 
a  much  more  dangerous  position  than  you  imagine.  I  don't 
deny  your  father's  affection  for  you.  It  would  be  absurd  to 
deny  it.  But  you  are  of  an  age  now  to  appreciate  his 
character.  Whatever  you  may  do  he  will  always  give  you 
money.  That  you  are  sure  of.  That  you  know.  Very  well. 
But  you  are  one  to  want  more  than  money :  you  want  his 
love.  Richard,  I  am  convinced  you  will  never  be  happy, 
whatever  base  pleasures  you  may  be  led  into,  if  he  should 
withhold  his  love  from  you.  Now,  child,  you  know  you  have 
gi'ievously  offended  him.  I  wish  not  to  animadvert  on  your 
conduct. — You  fancied  yourself  in  love,  and  so  on,  and  you 
were  rash.  The  less  said  of  it  the  better  now.  But  you 
must  now — it  is  your  duty  now  to  do  something — to  do 
everything  that  lies  in  your  power  to  show  him  j'ou  repent. 
No  interruptions  !  Listen  to  me.  You  must  consider  him. 
Austin  is  not  like  other  men.  Austin  requires  the  most 
delicate  management.  You  must — whether  you  feel  it  or  no 
— present  an  appearance  of  contrition..  I  counsel  it  for  the 
good  of  all.  He  is  just  like  a  woman,  and  where  his  feelings 
are  offended  he  wants  utter  subservience.  He  has  you  in 
town,  and  he  does  not  see  you — now  you  know  that  he 
and  I  are  not  in  communication  :  we  have  likewise  our  diffei'- 
ences  : — Well,  he  has  you  in  town,  and  he  holds  ahiof  : — ho 
is  trying  you,  my  dear  Richai'd.  No  :  he  is  not  at,  Ilaynham; 
1  do  not  know  where  he  is.     He  is  trying  you,  cliild,  and  you 

Z  2 


340  Tiir  onDKAT.  or  nirnAr^D  fevfreu 

must  be  pafiiMit.     You  must  couvinco  liim  tliat  3'ou  do  not 
euro  uttei'ly  for  your  own  pratiCieation.     If  this  person — I 
■wish  to  speak  of  her  with  respect,  for  yo;;r  sake — well,  if  she 
loves  you  at  all — if,  I  say,  she  loves  you  one  atom,  she  will 
rejieat  my  solicitations  for  you  to  stay  and  patiently  wait 
here  till  he  consents  to  see  you.     I  tell  you  candidly,  it's 
your   only   chance   of    ever    getting    him    to    recei\"e    her. 
That  you  should  know.     And  now,  Richard,  I  may  add  that 
there  is  something  else  you  should  know.     You  should  know 
that  it  depends  entirely  upon  your  conduct  now,  whether 
you   are  to  sec  your  father's  heart  for  ever  divided   from 
you,  and  a  new  family  at  Ra\Tiham.    You  do  not  understand? 
I  will  explain.     Bi-others  and  sisters  are  excellent  things  for 
young  people,  but  a  new  brood  of  them  can  hardly  be  accept- 
able   to  a  young  man.      In  fact,  they  are,   and   must  be, 
aliens.    I  only  tell  you  what  I  have  heard  on  good  authority. 
Don't  you  understand  now  ?      Foolish  boy  !    if  you  do  not 
humour  him,  he  will  marry  Lady  Blandish.     Oh  !  I  am  sure 
of  it.     I  know  it.     And  this  you  will  drive  him  to.     I  do  not 
warn  you  on  the  score  of  your  prospects,  but  of  your  feelings. 
I   should  regard   such   a    contingency,    Richard,   as  a  final 
division  between  you.     Think  of  the  scandal !  but  alas,  that 
is  the  least  of  the  evils." 

It  was  Mis.  Doria's  object  to  produce  an  impression,  and 
avoid  an  argument.  She  therefore  left  him  as  soon  as  she 
had,  as  she  supposed,  made  her  mark  on  the  young  m-m. 
Ilichaid  was  very  silent  during  the  speech,  and  save  for  an 
exclamation  or  so,  had  listened  attentively.  He  pondered  on 
what  his  aunt  said.  He  loved  Lady  Blandish,  and  yet  he 
did  not  wi.sh  to  sec  her  Lady  Feverel.  Mrs.  Doria  laid 
painful  sti'css  on  the  scandal,  and  though  he  did  not  give  his 
mind  to  this,  he  thought  of  it.  He  thought  of  his  mother 
Where  was  she?  But  most  his  thoughts  recurred  to  his 
father,  and  something  akin  to  jealousy  slowly  awakened  his 
heart  to  him.  He  had  given  him  up,  and  had  not  latterly 
felt  extremely  filial ;  but  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  a 
division  in  the  love  of  which  he  had  ever  been  the  idol 
and  sole  object.  And  such  a  man,  too !  so  good !  so  gener- 
ous !  If  it  was  jealousy  that  roused  the  young  man's  heart 
to  his  father,  the  better  part  of  love  was  also  revived  in  it. 
Ho  thought  of  old  days  :  of  his  father's  forbearance,  his  own 
wilfulness.     He  looked  on  himself,  and  what  he  had  done, 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND.  341 

witli  the  eyes  of  such  a  man.  He  determined  to  do  all  ho 
could  to  regain  his  favour. 

J\Jrs.  Doria  learnt  from  Adrian  in  the  evening'  that  her 
nephew  intended  waiting  in  town  another  week. 

"That  will  do,"  smiled  Mrs.  Doria.  "He  will  be  more 
patient  at  the  end  of  a  week." 

"  Oh!  does  patience  beget  patience?"  said  Adrian.  "I 
was  not  aware  it  was  a  propagating  virtue.  I  surrender  him 
to  you.  I  sha'nt  be  able  to  hold  him  in  after  one  week  more. 
I  assure  you,  my  dear  aunt,  he's  already  .  .  ." 

"  Thank  you,  no  explanation,"  Mrs.  Doria  begged. 

When  Richard  saw  her  next,  he  was  informed  that  she 
»;ad  I'eceived  a  most  satisfactory  letter  from  Mi-s.  John  Tod- 
hunter  :  quite  a  glowing  account  of  John's  behaviour :  but 
on  Richard's  desiring  to  know  the  words  Clare  had  written, 
Mrs.  Doria  objected  to  be  explicit,  and  shot  into  worldly 
gossip. 

'"  Chire  seldom  glows,"  said  Richard. 

"No,  I  mean /or  her,"  his  aunt  remarked.  "Don't  look 
like  your  father,  child." 

"  1  should  like  to  have  seen  the  letter,"  said  Richard. 

Mrs.  Doria  did  not  propose  to  show  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RrCITMOND. 


A  Lady  driving  a  pair  of  greys  was  noticed  by  Richard  m 
his  rides  and  walks.  She  passed  him  rather  obviously  and 
often.  She  was  very  handsome  ;  a  bold  beauty,  with  shining 
black  hair,  red  lips,  and  eyes  not  afiaid  of  men.  The  ha.ir 
was  brushed  from  her  temples,  Iciiving  one  of  those  fine  I'eck- 
Icss  outlines  which  the  action  ol'  driving,  and  the  pace,  ad- 
mirably set  oft".  She  took  his  fancy.  He  liked  the  air  of 
petulant  gallantry  about  her,  and  mused  upon  the  picture, 
i-are  to  him,  of  a  glorious  dashing  woman.  He  thought,  too, 
she  looked  at  him.  He  was  not  at  the  time  inclined  to  be 
vain,  or  he  might  have  been  sure  she  did.  Once  it  struck 
him  she  nodded  slightly. 

He  asked  Adrian  oue  day  in  the  park — who  she  was. 


542  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICIIATID  FEVETIEU 

*'  I  don't  know  her,"  said  Adrian.  "  Probibly  a  superior 
priestess  of  Paphos." 

"Now  that's  my  idea  of  Bellona,"  Richard  exchaimed. 
*'  Not  the  fury  tlioy  paint,  but  a  spirited,  dauntless,  ea^cr- 
lookinp:  ci'eatui-e  like  that." 

"  Bellona  ?"  returned  the  wise  youth.  "  I  don't  think  hi^;r 
hair  was  black.  Red,  wasn't  it !  I  shouldn't  comjiai-e  her 
to  Rellona ;  though,  no  doubt,  she's  as  ready  to  spill  blood. 
Look  at  her!  She  does  seem  to  scent  cai'nagc.  I  see  your 
idea.  No;  I  should  liken  her  to  Diana  emerf,'ed  from  the 
tutorship  of  Master  Endj'mion,  and  at  nice  play  among  the 
gods.  Depend  upon  it — they  tell  us  nothing  of  the  matter 
— Olympus  shrouds  the  stoi\y — but  you  may  be  certain  that 
when  slie  left  the  pretty  shepherd  she  had  greater  vogue 
than  Venus  up  aloft. 

Brayder  joined  them. 

"  See  Mrs.  Mount  go  by  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  that's  Mrs.  Mount !"  cried  Adrian. 

"Who's  Mrs.  Mount  ?"  Richard  inquired. 

"A  sister  to  Miss  Random,  my  dear  boy." 

"Like  to  know  her?"  drawled  the  Hon.  Peter. 

Richard  replied  indifferently,  "  No,"  and  Mrs.  Mount 
passed  out  of  Right  and  out  of  the  conversation. 

The  young  man  wrote  submissive  letters  to  his  father. 
"  I  have  remained  here  waiting  to  see  you  now  five  vpeeks," 
he  wrote.  "  I  have  written  to  you  three  letters,  and  you  do 
not  reply  to  them.  Let  me  tell  you  again  how  sincerely  I 
desire  and  pray  that  you  will  come,  or  permit  me  to  come  to 
you  and  throw  myself  at  your  feet,  and  beg  my  forgiveness, 
and  hers.  She  as  earnestly  implores  it.  Indeed,  I  am  very 
w^retched,  sir.  Believe  me,  there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do 
to  regain  your  esteem  and  the  love  ]  fear  I  have  unhappily 
forfeited.  I  will  remain  another  week  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
from  you,  or  seeing  you.  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  not  to  drive  me 
mad.     Whatever  you  ask  of  me  I  will  consent  to." 

"Nothing  he  would  not  do!"  the  baronet  commented  as 
he  read.  "  There  is  nothing  he  would  not  do !  He  will 
remain  another  Aveek  and  give  me  that  final  chance  !  And 
it  is  I  who  drive  him  mad  !  Already  he  is  beginning  to  cast 
his  retribution  on  my  shoulders." 

Sir  Austin  had  really  gone  down  to  Wales  to  be  out  of 
the  way.     A  Shaddock-Dogmatist  does  not  meet  misfortune 


A  DINNER-PAKTY  AT  RICHMOND.  343 

without  hearing  of  it,  and  the  author  of  The  Pii.urtm's  Scrip 
in  trouble  found  London  too  hot  for  him.  He  quitted  London 
to  take  refuge  among  the  mountains;  living  thei-e  in  solitary 
commune  with  a  virgin  Note- book. 

Some  indefinite  scheme  was  in  his  head  in  this  treatment 
of  his  son.  Had  he  construed  it,  it  would  have  looked  ugly; 
and  it  settled  to  a  vague  principle  that  the  young  man  should 
be  tried  and  tested. 

"  Let  him  learn  to  deny  himself  something.  Let  him  live 
with  his  equals  for  a  term.  If  he  loves  me  he  will  read  my 
wishes."    Thus  he  explainecl  his  principle  to  Lady  Blandish. 

The  lady  wrote:  "You  speak  of  a  term.  Till  when?  May 
I  name  one  to  him  ?  It  is  the  dreadful  uncertainty  that 
reduces  him  to  despair.  That,  and  nothing  else.  Pray  be 
explicit." 

In  return,  he  distantly  indicated  Richard's  majority. 

How  could  Lady  Blandish  go  and  ask  the  young  man  to 
wait  a  year  away  from  his  wife  ?  Her  instinct  began  to 
open  a  wide  eye  on  the  idol  she  worshipped. 

When  people  do  not  themselves  know  what  they  mean, 
they  succeed  in  deceiving  and  imposing  upon  others.  Not 
only  was  Lady  Blandish  mystified ;  Mrs.  Doria,  who  pierced 
into  the  recesses  of  everybody's  mind,  and  had  always  been 
in  the  habit  of  reading  oif  her  brother  from  infancy,  and  had 
never  known  hei'self  to  be  once  wrong  about  him,  she  con- 
fessed she  was  quite  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  Austin's  prin- 
ciple. "  For  principle  he  has,"  said  Mi^s.  Doria ;  "  he  never 
acts  without  one.  But  what  it  is  I  cannot  at  present  per- 
ceive. If  he  would  write,  and  command  the  boy  to  await 
his  return,  all  would  be  clear.  He  allows  us  to  go  and  fetch 
him,  and  then  leaves  us  all  in  a  quandary.  It  must  be  some 
woman's  influence.     That  is  the  only  way  to  account  for  it." 

"Singular!"  interjected  Adrian,  "what  ])ride  women 
have  in  their  sex  !  Well,  I  have  to  tell  you,  my  dear  aunt, 
that  the  day  after  to-morrow  I  hand  my  charge  over  to  your 
keeping.  I  can't  hold  him  in  an  hour  longer.  I've  had  to 
leash  him  with  lies  till  my  invention's  exhausted.  I  petition 
to  have  them  put  down  to  the  chief's  account,  but  when  the 
stream  runs  dry  I  can  do  no  more.  The  last  was,  that  I  had 
heard  from  him  desiring  me  to  have  the  South-west  bedroom 
ready  for  him  on  Tuesday  proximate.  '  So  !  '  says  my  son, 
,ril  wait  till  then,'  and  from  the  gigantic  effort  he  exhibited 


344  THE  ORDEAL  OF  KICIIARD  FEVEREL. 

in  coming  to  it,  I  doubt  any  liuraan  power's  getting  him  to 
wait  longer." 

"  VV^e  must,  we  must  detain  him,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "  If  we 
do  not,  I  am  convinced  Austin  will  do  something  rash  that  he 
will  for  ever  repent.  Ho  will  marry  that  Avoman,  Adrian. 
!^^ark  my  words.  Now  with  any  other  young  man  ,  .  .  But 
Richard's  education  !  that  ridiculous  System !  .  .  .  lias  ho 
no  distraction  ?  nothing  to  amuse  him  ?  " 

"  Poor  boy  !  I  suppose  he  wants  his  own  particular  play- 
fellow." 

The  wise  youth  had  to  bow  to  a  reproof. 

"  I  tell  you,  Adrian,  he  will  marry  that  woman." 

"  My  dear  aunt!  Can  a  chaste  man  do  aught  more  com- 
mendable ?  " 

"  Has  the  boy  no  object  we'  can  induce  him  to  follow  ? — If 
he  had  but  a  profession  !  " 

"  What  say  you  to  the  regeneration  of  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, and  the  profession  of  moral-scavenger,  aunt  ?  I  assure 
you  I  have  served  a  month's  apprenticeship  with  him.  We 
sally  forth  on  the  tenth  hour  towards  night.  A  female 
passes.  I  hear  him  groan.  '  Is  she  one  of  them,  Adrian  ?  ' 
I  am  compelled  to  admit  she  is  not  the  saint  he  deems  it  the 
portion  of  every  creature  wearing  petticoats  to  be.  Another 
groan ;  an  evident  internal,  '  It  cannot  be — and  yet ! '  .  .  . 
that  we  hear  on  the  stage.  Rollings  of  ej'^es  :  impious  ques- 
tionings of  the  Creator  of  the  universe ;  savage  mutterings 
against  brutal  males ;  and  then  we  meet  a  second  young 
person,  and  repeat  the  performance — of  which  I  am  rather 
tired.  It  would  be  all  very  well,  but  he  turns  upon  me, 
and  lectures  me  because  I  d(m't  hire  a  house,  and  furnish  it 
for  all  the  women  one  meets  to  live  in  in  purity.  Now  that's 
too  much  to  ask  of  a  quiet  man.  Master  Thomj^son  has 
latterly  relieved  me,  I'm  happy  to  say." 

Mrs.  Doria  thought  her  thoughts. 

"Has  Austin  written  to  you  since  you  were  in  town  ?" 

"  Not  an  Aphorism  !  "  returned  Adrian. 

"  I  must  see  Richard  to-morrow  morning,"  Mrs.  Doria 
ended  the  colloquy  by  saying. 

The  result  of  her  interview  with  her  nephew  was,  that 
Richard  made  no  allusiun  to  a  departure  on  the  Tuesday  ; 
and  for  many  days  afterward  he  appeared  to  have  an  absorb- 
•Ti^r  business  on  his  hands :  but  what  it  was  Adrian  did  not 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND.  345 

then  learn,  and  his  admiration  of  Mrs.  Doria's  genius  for 
management  rose  to  a  very  high  pitch. 

On  a  morning  in  October  they  had  an  early  visitor  in  the 
person  of  the  Hon.  Peter,  whom  they  had  not  seen  for  a  week 
or  more. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  flourishing  his  cane  in  his  most 
affable  manner,  "  I've  come  to  propose  to  you  to  join  us  in  a 
little  dinner-party  at  Richmond.  Nobody's  in  town,  you 
know.  London's  as  dead  as  a  stock-fish.  Nothing  but  the 
scrapings  to  offer  you.  But  the  weather's  fine :  I  flatter 
myself  you'll  find  the  company  agi-eeable.  What  says  my 
friend  Feverel  ?" 

Richard  begged  to  be  excused. 

"  No,  no :  positively  you  must  come,"  said  the  Hon. 
Peter.  "  I've  had  some  trouble  to  get  them  together  to 
relieve  the  dulness  of  your  incarcei  ation.  Richmond's 
within  the  rules  of  your  prison.  You  can  be  back  by  night. 
Moonlight  on  the  water — lovely  woman.  We've  engaged  a 
city-barge  to  pull  us  back.  Eight  oars — I'm  not  sure  it  isn't 
sixteen.     Come — the  word!" 

Adrian  was  for  going.  Richard  said  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  Ripton. 

"  You're  in  for  another  rick,  you  two,"  said  Adrian. 
"Arrange  that  we  go.  You  haven't  seen  the  cockney's 
Paradise.     Abjure  Blazes,  and  taste  of  peace,  my  son." 

After  eomtJ  persuasion,  Richard  yawned  weainly,  and  got 
up,  and  threw  aside  the  care  that  was  on  him,  saying,  "  Very 
well.     Just  as  you  like.     We'll  take  old  Rip  with  us." 

Adrian  consulted  Brayder's  eye  at  this.  The  Hon.  Peter 
briskly  declared  he  should  be  delighted  to  have  Feverel's 
friend,  and  offered  to  take  them  all  down  in  his  drag. 

"  If  you  don't  get  a  match  on  to  swim  there  with  the  tide 
— eh,  Feverel,  my  boy  ?" 

Richard  replied  that  he  bad  given  up  that  sort  of  thing, 
at  which  Braydcr  communicated  a  queer  glance  to  Adrian, 
and  applauded  the  youth. 

Richmond  was  under  a  still  October  sun.  The  pleasant 
landscape,  bathed  in  Autumn,  stretched  from  the  foot  of  the 
hill  to  a  red  horizon  haze.  The  day  was  like  none  that 
Richard  vividly  remembeied.      It  touched    no  link    in  tho 


346  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVRREL. 

clijiin  of  his  recollection.  It  was  quiet,  and  belonged  to  the 
Bjtirit  of  the  Reason. 

Adrian  had  divined  the  character  of  the  scrapings  they 
were  to  meet.  Brayder  introduced  them  to  one  or  two  of 
the  men,  hastily  and  in  rather  an  undcrvoice,  as  a  thing  to 
get  over.  They  made  their  bow  to  the  first  knot  of  ladies 
they  encountered.  Propriety  was  observed  strictly,  even  to 
severity.  The  general  talk  was  of  the  weather.  Here  and 
there  a  lady  would  seize  a  button-hole,  or  any  little  bit  of 
the  habiliments,  of  the  man  she  was  addressing  ;  and  if  it 
came  to  her  to  chide  him,  she  did  it  with  more  than  a  fore- 
finger. This,  however,  Avas  only  here  and  there,  and  a 
privilege  of  intimacy. 

Where  ladies  are  gathered  together,  the  Queen  of  the 
assemblage  may  be  known  by  her  Court  of  males.  The 
Queen  of  the  present  gathering  leaned  against  a  comer  of 
the  open  window,  surrounded  by  a  stalwart  Court,  in  whom 
a  practised  eye  would  have  discerned  guardsmen,  and  Ripton, 
with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  apprehended  lords.  They  were 
fine  men,  offering  inanimate  homage.  The  trim  of  their 
whiskei-age,  the  cut  of  their  coats,  the  high-bred  indolence 
in  their  aspect,  eclipsed  Ripton's  sense  of  self-esteem.  But 
they  kindly  looked  over  him.  Occasionally  one  committed 
a  momentary  outrage  on  him  with  an  eye-glass,  seeming  to 
cry  out  in  a  voice  of  scathing  scorn,  "  Who's  this  ?"  and 
Ripton  got  closer  to  his  hero  to  justify  his  humble  preten- 
sions to  existence  and  an  identity  in  the  shadow  of  him. 
Richai'd  gazed  about.  Heroes  do  not  always  know  what  to 
say  or  do ;  and  the  cold  bath  before  dinner  in  strange  com- 
pany is  one  of  the  instances.  He  had  recognised  his  superb 
Bellona  in  the  lady  by  the  garden  window.  For  Brayder 
the  men  had  nods  and  jokes,  the  ladies  a  pretty  playfulness. 
He  was  very  busy,  passing  between  the  groups,  chatting, 
laughing,  taking  the  feminine  taps  he  received,  and  some- 
times returning  them  in  sly  whispers.  Adrian  sat  down  and 
crossed  his  legs,  looking  amused  and  benignant. 

"  Whose  dinner  is  it  ?"  Ripton  heard  a  mignonne  beauty 
ask  of  a  cavalier. 

"  Mount's,  I  suppose,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Where  is  he  't     Why  don't  he  come  ?'* 

*'  An  affaire,  I  fancy." 


A  DINXER-PAKTY  AT  RICHMOND.  347 

"  There  he  is  again !  How  shamefully  he  treats  Mrs. 
Mount!" 

"  She  don't  seem  to  cry  over  it." 

Mrs.  Mount  was  flashing  her  teeth  and  eyes  with  laughter 
at  one  of  her  Court,  who  appeared  to  be  Fool. 

Dinner  was  announced.  The  ladies  proclaimed  extrava- 
pant  appetites.  Brayder  posted  his  three  friends.  Ripton 
found  himself  under  the  lee  of  a  dame  with  a  bosom.  On 
the  other  side  of  him  was  the  mignonne.  Adrian  was  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  table.  Ladies  were  in  profusion,  and  he 
had  his  share.  Brayder  drew  Richai'd  from  seat  to  seat. 
A  happy  man  had  established  himself  next  to  Mrs.  Mount. 
Him  Brayder  hailed  to  take  the  head  of  the  table.  The 
happy  man  objected,  Brayder  continued  urgent,  the  lady 
tenderly  insisted,  the  happy  man  grimaced,  dropped  into 
the  post  of  honour,  strove  to  look  placable.  Richard 
•usurped  his  chair,  and  was  not  badly  welcomed  by  his 
neighbour. 

Then  the  dinner  commenced,  and  had  all  the  attention  of 
the  company,  till  the  flying  of  the  first  champagne-cork  gave 
the  signal,  and  a  hum  began  to  spread.  Sparkling  wine  that 
looseneth  the  tongue,  and  display eth  the  verity,  hath  also 
the  quality  of  colouring  it.  The  ladies  laughed  high  ; 
Richard  only  thought  them  gay  and  natural.  They  flung 
back  in  their  chairs  and  laughed  to  tears ;  Ripton  thought 
only  of  the  pleasure  he  had  in  their  society.  The  cham- 
pagne-corks continued  a  regular  file-firing. 

"  Where  have  you  been  lately  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  in  the 
park,"  said  Mrs.  Mount  to  Richard. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "I've  not  been  there."  The  question 
seemed  odd:  she  spoke  so  simply  that  it  did  not  impress 
him.     He  emptied  his  glass,  and  had  it  filled  again. 

The  Hon.  Peter  did  most  of  the  open  talking,  which 
related  to  horses,  yachting,  opera,  and  sport  generally:  who 
was  ruined ;  by  what  horse,  or  by  what  woman.  He  told 
one  or  two  of  Richard's  feats.     Fair  smiles  rewai'ded  the  hero. 

"  Do  you  bet  ?  "  said  ]\lrs.  Mount. 

"Only  on  myself,"  I'ctunied  Richard. 

"Bravo!  "  cried  his  BcUona,  and  her  eye  sent  a  liTigciiiig 
delirious  sparkle  across  her  brimming  glass  at  him. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  a  safe  one  to  back,"  she  added,  and 
seemed  to  scan  his  points  approvingly. 


348  TDE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREt. 

Eiclifii-d's  cheeks  mounted  bloom. 

"  Don't  you  adore  champagne  ?  "  quoth  the  dame  with  a 
bosom  to  Ripton. 

"  Oh,  yes  I  "  answered  Rijiton,  with  more  candour  than 
accuracy,  "  I  always  drink  it." 

'*  Do  you  indeed  ? "  said  the  enraptured  bosom,  ogling 
him.  "  You  would  be  a  friend,  now !  I  hope  you  don't 
object  to  a  lady  joining  you  now  and  then.  Champagne's 
my  folly." 

A  laugh  was  circling  among  the  ladies  of  whom  Adrian 
was  the  centre ;  first  low,  and  as  he  continued  some  narra- 
tion, peals  resounded,  till  those  excluded  from  the  fun  de- 
manded the  cue,  and  ladies  leaned  behind  gentlemen  to  take 
it  up,  and  formed  an  electric  chain  of  laughter.  Each  one, 
as  her  ear  received  it,  caught  up  her  handkerchief,  and 
laughed,  and  looked  shocked  afterwards,  or  looked  shocked 
and  then  spouted  laughter.  The  anecdote  might  have  been 
communicated  to  the  bewildered  cavaliers,  but  coming  to  a 
lady  of  a  demurer  cast,  she  looked  shocked  without  laugh- 
ing, and  reproved  the  female  table,  in  whose  breasts  it  was 
consigned  to  burial :  but  here  and  there  a  man's  head  was 
seen  bent,  and  a  lady's  mouth  moved,  though  her  face  was 
not  turned  toward  liim,  and  a  man's  broad  laugh  was  pre- 
sently heard,  while  the  lady  gazed  unconsciously  before  her, 
and  preserved  her  gravity  if  she  could  escape  any  other 
lady's  eyes ;  failing  in  which  handkerchiefs  were  simultane- 
ously seized,  and  a  second  chime  arose,  till  the  tickling  foi'co 
subsided  to  a  few  chance  bursts. 

What  nonsense  it  is  that  my  father  writes  about  women ! 
thought  Richard.  He  says  they  can't  laugh,  and  don't  un- 
derstand humour.  It  comes,  he  reflected,  of  his  shutting 
himself  from  the  world.  And  the  idea  that  he  was  seeing 
the  world,  and  feeling  wiser,  flattered  him.  He  talked 
fluently  to  his  dangerous  Bellona.  He  gave  her  some  re- 
miniscences of  Adrian's  whimsies. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  slie,  "  that's  your  tutor,  is  it !  "  She  eyed  the 
young  man  as  if  she  thought  he  must  go  far  and  fast. 

Ripton  felt  a  push.  "  Look  at  that,"  said  the  bosom, 
fuming  utter  disgust.  He  was  directed  to  see  a  manly  arm 
round  the  waist  of  the  mignonne.  "  Now  that's  what  I 
don't  like  in  company,"  the  bos(;m  inflated  to  observe  with 


A  DINNER-PAETY  AT  EICHMOND.  849 

Bnfficient  emphasis.  "  Slie  always  will  allow  it  with  every- 
body.    Give  her  a  nudge." 

Ripton  protested  that  he  dared  not ;  upon  which  she  said, 
"Then  I  will;  "  and  inclined  her  sumptuous  bust  across  his 
lap,  breathing  wine  in  his  face,  and  gave  the  nudge.  The 
niignonne  turned  an  inquiring  eye  on  Ripton ;  a  mischievous 
spark  shot  from  it.  She  laughed,  and  said;  "Aren't  you 
satisfied  with  the  old  girl  ?  " 

"  Impudence !  "  muttered  the  bosom,  growing  grander  and 
redder. 

"  Do,  do  fill  her  glass,  and  keep  her  quiet — she  drinks 
port  when  there's  no  more  champagne,"  said  the  mignonne. 

The  bosom  revenged  herself  by  whispering  to  Ripton 
scandal  of  the  mignonne,  and  between  them  he  was  enabled 
to  form  a  correcter  estimate  of  the  company,  and  quite 
recovered  from  his  original  awe  ;  so  much  so  as  to  feel  a 
touch  of  jealousy  at  seeing  his  lively  little  neighbour  still 
heid  in  absolute  possession. 

Mrs.  Mount  did  not  come  out  much  ;  but  there  was  a  defe- 
rential manner  in  the  bearing  of  the  men  toward  her,  which 
those  haughty  creatures  accord  not  save  to  clever  women; 
and  she  contrived  to  hold  the  talk  with  three  or  four  at  the 
head  of  the  table  while  she  still  had  passages  aside  with 
Richard. 

The  port  and  claret  went  very  well  after  the  champagne. 
The  ladies  here  did  not  ignominiously  surrender  the  field  to 
the  gentlemen ;  they  maintained  their  position  with  honour. 
Silver  was  seen  far  out  on  Thames.  The  wine  ebbed,  and 
the  laughter.  Sentiment  and  cigars  took  up  the  wondrous 
tale. 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  night !  "  said  the  ladies,  looking 
above. 

"  Charming,"  said  the  gentlemen,  looking  below. 

The  faint-smelling  cool  Autumn  air  was  pleasant  after  the 
feast.     Fragrant  weeds  burned  bright  about  the  garden. 

"We  are  split  into  couples,"  said  Adrian  to  Ricliard,  who 
was  standing  alone,  eyeing  the  landscape.  "  'Tis  the  influence 
of  the  moon!  Apparently  we  are  in  Cyprus.  How  has  my 
son  enjoyed  himself  ?  How  likes  he  the  society  of  Aspasia? 
I  feel  like  a  wise  Greek  to-night." 

Adrian  was  jolly,  and  rolled  comfortably  as  he  talked. 
Ripton  hai^  Hncn  curried  olf  by  the  sentinienial   bosom.     He 


350  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

cuTiu'  up  to  tlicm  and  whispered :  "  By  Jove,  Ricky  !  do  yon 
know  what  sort  of  wonit-n  those  are?  " 

Richard  said  he  thought  them  a  nice  sort. 

"  Puritan  !  "  exchiimcd  Adrian,  slapping  Ripton  on  the 
back.  "Why  didn't  you  got  tipsy,  sir?  Don't  you  ever 
intoxicate  yourself  except  at  lawful  marriages  ?  Reveal  to 
us  what  you  have  done  with  the  portly  dame  ?" 

Ripton  endured  his  bantering  that  he  might  hang  about 
Richard,  and  watch  over  him.  He  was  jealous  of  his  inno- 
cent Beauty's  husband  being  in  proximity  with  such  women. 
Murmuring  couples  passed  them  to  and  fro. 

"  By  Jove,  Ricky  !  "  Ripton  favoured  his  friend  with 
another  hard  whisper,  "  there's  a  woman  smoking  !" 

*'  And  why  not,  0  Riptonus  ?  "  said  Adrian.  "  Art  un- 
aware that  woman  cosmopolitan  is  woman  consummate  ?  and 
dost  grumble  to  pay  the  small  price  for  the  splendid  gem  ?  " 

"  AVell,  I  don't  like  women  to  smoke,"  said  ]ilain  Ripton. 

"  Why  mayn't  they  do  what  men  do  ?"  the  hei-o  cried  im- 
petuously. "  I  hate  that  contemptible  narrow-mindedness. 
It's  that  that  makes  the  ruin  and  hoiTors  I  see.  Why  mayn't 
they  do  what  men  do  ?  I  like  the  women  who  are  brave 
enough  not  to  be  hypocrites.  By  heaven!  if  these  women  are 
bad,  I  like  them  better  than  a  set  of  hypocritical  creatures 
who  are  all  show,  and  deceive  you  in  the  end." 

"  Bravo  !  "  shouted  Adrian.  "  There  speaks  the  regene- 
rator." 

Ripton,  as  usual,  was  crushed  by  his  leader.  He  had  no 
argument.  He  still  thought  women  ought  not  to  smoke  ; 
and  he  thought  of  one  far  away,  lonely  by  the  sea,  who  was 
perfect  without  being  cosmopolitan. 

The  Pilgrim's  Scrip  remarks  that:  "Young  men  take 
joy  in  nothing  so  much  as  the  thinking  women  Angels  :  and 
nothing  sours  men  of  experience  more  than  knowing  that  all 
are  not  quite  so." 

The  Aphorist  would  have  pardoned  Ripton  Thompson  his 
first  Random  extravagance,  had  he  perceived  the  simple 
waiTU-hearted  worship  of  feminine  goodness  Richard's  young 
bride  had  inspired  in  the  breast  of  the  youth.  It  might 
possibly  have  taught  him  to  put  deeper  trust  in  nature. 

Ripton  thouglit  of  her,  and  had  a  feeling  of  sadness.  He 
wandered  about  the  grounds  by  himself,  went  thnnigh  an 
open  posteiTi,  and  threw  himself  down  among  some  bushes 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND.  35) 

on  the  slope  of  the  hill.     Lying  there,  and  meditating,  he 
became  aware  of  voices  conversing. 

"  What  does  he  want  ?  "  said  a  woman's  voice.  "  It's 
another  of  his  villanies,  I  know.  Upon  my  honour,  Brayder, 
when  I  think  of  what  I  have  to  reproach  him  for,  I  think  1 
must  go  mad,  or  kill  him." 

"  Tragic  !  "  said  the  Hon.  Peter.  "  Haven't  you  revenged 
yourself,  Bella,  pretty  often  ?  Best  deal  openly.  This  is  a 
commercial  transaction.  You  ask  for  money,  and  you  are 
to  have  it — on  the  conditions :  double  the  sum,  and  debts 
paid." 

"  He  applies  to  me  !" 

"  You  know,  my  dear  Bella,  it  has  long  been  all  up  between 
you.  I  think  Mount  has  behaved  very  well,  considering  all 
he  knows.  He's  not  easily  hoodwinked,  you  know.  He  resigns 
himself  to  his  fate,  and  follows  other  game." 

"  Then  the  condition  is  that  I  am  to  seduce  this  young 
man  ?" 

"  My  dear  Bella !  you  strike  your  bird  like  a  hawk.  I 
didn't  say  seduce.  Hold  him  in — play  with  him.  Amuse 
him." 

"  I  don't  understand  half-measures." 

"  Women  seldom  do." 

*'  How  I  hate  you,  Brayder  !" 

"  I  thank  your  ladyship." 

The  two  walked  farther,  and  the  result  of  the  colloquy 
was  shut  from  Ripton.  He  left  the  spot  in  a  serious  mood, 
apprehensive  of  something  dark  to  the  people  he  loved, 
thou  oh  he  had  no  idea  of  what  the  Hon.  Peter's  stipulation 
involved. 

-  On  the  voyage  back  to  town,  Richard  was  again  selected 
to  sit  by  Mrs.  Mount.  Brayder  and  Adrian  started  tlic  jokes. 
The  pair  of  parasites  got  on  extremely  well  togethoi-.  Soft 
fell  the  plash  of  the  oars;  softly  the  nioonliglit  curled  around 
them;  softly  the  banks  glided  by.  The  ladies  were  in  a  state 
of  high  sentiment.  They  sang  without  request.  All  deemed 
the  British  balladmonger  an  a[)})ropri:ite  interpreter  of  their 
emotions.  After  good  wine,  and  ])lenty  thereof,  fair  throats 
will  make  men  of  taste  swallow  that  remai-kable  composer. 
Eyes,  lips,  hearts;  darts  and  smarts  and  sighs;  beauty,  duty; 
bosom,  blossom;  false  one,  farewell!  To  this  pathetic  strain 
they    melted.      Mrs.    Mount,    though    strongly    requested. 


352  TUE  OUDEAL  OF  lUClIAUD  FEVKUKL. 

declined  to  sinjr.  She  preserved  her  state.  Under  tha 
tall  as]ions  of  Brontfonl-ait,  and  on  they  swept,  the  white 
moon  in  tlieir  wake.  Richard's  hand  lay  open  by  his  side. 
Jlrs.  Mount's  little  white  hand  by  misadventure  fell  into  it. 
It  was  not  pressed,  or  soothed  for  its  fall,  or  made  intimate 
•with  eloquent  fingers.  It  lay  there  like  a  bit  of  snow  on  the 
cold  fji'onnd.  A  yellow  leaf  wavering  down  from  the  aspens 
struck  Richard's  cheek,  and  he  drew  away  the  very  hand  to 
throw  back  his  hair  and  smooth  his  face,  and  tlien  folded  his 
arms,  unconscious  of  offence.  He  was  thinking  ambitiously 
of  his  life:  his  blood  was  untroubled:  his  brain  calmly 
working. 

"  Which  is  the  more  perilous  ?"  is  a  problem  put  by  the 
Pilgrim  :  "To  meet  the  tcmptings  of  Eve,  or  to  pique  her?" 

Mrs.  Mount  stared  at  the  young  man  as  at  a  curiosity,  and 
turned  to  flirt  with  one  of  her  Court.  The  Guardsmen  were 
mostly  sentimental.  One  or  two  rattled,  and  one  was  such 
a  good-humoured  fellow  that  Adrian  could  not  make  him 
ridiculous.  The  others  seemed  to  give  themselves  up  to  a 
silent  waxing  in  length  of  limb.  However  far  they  sat 
removed,  everybody  was  entangled  in  their  legs.  Pursuing 
his  studies,  Adi'ian  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  same 
close  intellectual  and  moral  aflinity  which  he  had  discovered 
to  exist  between  our  nobility  and  our  yeomanry,  is  to  be 
observed  between  the  Guardsman  class,  and  that  of  the 
corps  de  ballet :  they  both  live  by  the  strength  of  their  legs, 
where  also  their  wits,  if  they  do  not  altogether  reside  there, 
are  principally  developed :  both  are  volage ;  wine,  tobacco, 
and  the  naoon,  iniluencc  both  alike ;  and  admitting  the  one 
marked  difference  that  does  exist,  it  is,  after  all,  pretty 
nearly  the  same  thing  to  be  coquetting  and  sinning  on  two 
legs  as  on  the  point  of  a  toe. 

A  long  Guardsman  with  a  deep  bass  voice  sang  a  doleful 
song  about  the  twining  tendrils  of  the  heart  ruthlessly  torn, 
but  i-equired  urgent  persuasions  and  heavy  trumpeting  of 
his  lungs  to  get  to  the  end:  before  he  had  accomplished  it, 
Adrian  had  contrived  to  i-aise  a  laugh  in  his  neighbourhood, 
so  that  the  company  was  divided,  and  the  camp  split:  jollity 
returned  to  one-half,  while  sentiment  held  the  other.  Ripton, 
blotted  behind  the  bosom,  was  only  lucky  in  securing  a 
higher  degree  of  heat  than  was  possible  for  the  rest.  "Are 
you  cold  ?"  she  would  ask,  smili)'^  charitably. 


A  DINNER-PARTY  AT  RICHMOND.  353 

**  Jam,"  said  the  mignonne,  as  if  to  excuse  her  conduct, 
which  was  still  evident  to  the  decorous  fat  one,  though  more 
removed  therefrom. 

"  You  always  appear  to  be,"  she  sniilcd  and  snapped. 

"Won't  jou  warm  two,  Mrs.  Mortimer  ?"  said  the  naughty 
little  woman. 

Disdain  prevented  any  further  notice  of  her.  Those 
familiar  with  the  ladies  enjoyed  their  sparring,  which  was 
frequent.  The  mignonne  was  heard  to  whisper :  "  That  poor 
fellow  will  certainly  be  baked." 

Very  prettily  the  ladies  took  and  gave  warmth,  for  the  air 
on  the  water  was  chill  and  misty.  Adrian  had  beside  him 
the  demure  one  who  had  stopped  the  circulation  of  his  anec- 
dote. She  in  nowise  objected  to  the  fair  exchange,  but  said 
"  Hush  !  "  betweenwhiles. 

Past  Kew  and  Hammersmith,  on  the  cool  smooth  water ; 
across  Putney  reach  ;  through  Battersea  bridge  ;  and  the  City 
grew  around  them,  and  the  shadows  of  great  mill-factories 
slept  athwart  the  moonlight. 

All  the  ladies  prattled  sweetly  of  a  charming  day  when  they 
alighted  on  land.  Several  cavaliers  crushed  for  the  honour 
of  conducting  Mrs.  Mount  to  her  home. 

"  My  brougham's  here  ;  I  shall  go  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Mount, 
*'  Some  one  arrange  my  shawl." 

She  turned  her  back  to  Richard,  who  had  a  view  of  a 
delicate  neck  as  he  manipulated  with  the  bearing  of  a  mailed 
knight. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  she  asked  carelessly,  and, 
to  his  reply  as  to  the  direction,  said  :  "  Then  I  can  give  you 
a  lift,"  and  she  took  his  arm  with  a  matter-of-course  air, 
and  walked  up  the  stairs  with  him. 

Ripton  saw  what  had  happened.  He  was  going  to  follow: 
the  portly  dame  retained  him,  and  desired  him  to  get  hei-  a 
cab. 

"  Oh  you  happy  fellow  !  "  said  the  bright-eyid  mignonne, 
passing  by. 

Ripton  procured  the  cab,  and  stuffed  it  full  without  having 
to  get  into  it  himself. 

"  Ti  y  and  let  him  come  in  too?"  said  the  persecuting 
creatui-e,  again  passing. 

"  Take  liberties  with  your  men — you  sha'n't  with  rac," 
retorted  the  angry  bosom,  and  drove  off. 

2  \ 


354  THE  OKPKAL  OF  TUCllARn  FEVERRL. 

"  So  she's  boon  and  pfonc  and  run  awaj  and  left  him  after 
all  his  trouble!"  criod  the  pert  little  thing,  peering  into 
Ripton's  eyes.  "  Now  you'll  never  bo  so  foolish  as  to  piu 
your  faith  to  fat  women  again.  There  !  he  shall  bo  made 
happy  another  time."  She  gave  his  nose  a  comical  tap,  and 
trijijiod  away  with  her  possessor. 

Hipton  i-.ither  foigot  his  friend  for  some  minutes  :  llandom 
thoughts  laid  hold  of  him.  Cabs  and  carriages  rattled  past. 
He  was  sure  he  had  been  among  members  of  the  nobility  that 
day,  though  when  they  Avent  by  him  now  they  only  recog- 
nized him  with  an  effort  of  the  eyelids.  He  began  to  think 
of  the  day  with  exultation,  as  an  event.  llecoUections  of  the 
mignonne  were  captivating.  "  Blue  ej^es — just  what  I  like  ! 
And  such  a  little  impudent  nose,  and  red  lips,  pouting — the 
vei'y  thing  I  like!  And  her  hair?  darkish,  I  think — say, 
brown.  And  so  saucy,  and  light  on  her  feet.  And  kind  she 
is,  or  she  wouldn't  have  talked  to  me  like  that."  Thus, 
with  a  groaning  soul,  he  pictured  her.  His  reason  volun- 
tarily consigned  her  to  the  aristocracy  as  a  natural  appan- 
age :  but  he  did  amorously  wish  that  Fortune  had  made  a 
lord  of  him. 

Then  his  mind  reverted  to  ]Mrs.  Mount,  and  the  strange 
conversation  he  had  heard  on  the  hill.  He  was  not  one  to 
suspect  anybody  positively.  He  was  timid  of  fixing  a  sus- 
picion. It  hovered  indefinitely,  and  clouded  people,  without 
stirring  him  to  any  resolve.  Still  the  attentions  of  the  lady 
toward  Richard  Avere  queer.  He  endeavoured  to  imagine 
they  were  in  the  nature  of  things,  because  Richard  was  so 
handsome  that  any  woman  must  take  to  him.  "  But  he's 
married,"  said  Ripton,  "  and  he  mustn't  go  near  these  people 
if  he's  mariied."  Not  a  high  morality,  perhaps  :  better  than 
none  at  all :  better  for  the  world  wei-e  it  practised  more.  He 
thought  of  Richard  along  with  that  sparkling  dame,  alone 
with  her.  The  adorable  beauty  of  his  dear  bride,  her  pure 
heavenly  face,  swam  before  him.  Thinking  of  her,  he  lost 
sight  of  the  mignonne  who  had  made  him  giddy. 

He  walked  to  Richard's  hotel,  and  up  and  down  the  street 
there,  hoping  every  minute  to  hear  his  step ;  sometimes 
fancying  he  might  have  returned  and  gone  to  bed.  Two 
o'clock  struck.  Ripton  could  not  go  away.  He  was  sure  he 
should  not  sleep  if  he  did.  At  last  the  cold  sent  him  home- 
wai'd,  and  leaving  the  street,  on  the  moonlight  side  of  Picca- 


A  DINNER-PATITY  AT  RICHMOND.  355 

dilly  he  mot  his  friend  patrolling  with  his  liead  up  and  that 
swing  of  the  feet  proper  to  men  who  are  chanting  verses. 

"  Old  Rip  !  "  cried  Richard  cheerily.  "  What  on  earth 
are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour  of  the  morning  ?  " 

Ripton  muttered  of  his  pleasure  at  meeting  him.  "  I 
wanted  to  shake  your  hand  before  I  went  home." 

Richard  smiled  on  him  in  an  amused  kindly  way.  "  That 
all  ?  You  may  shake  my  hand  any  day,  like  a  true  man  as 
you  are,  old  Rip  !  I've  been  speaking  about  you.  Do  you 
know,  that — ]\Irs.  Mount — never  saw  you  all  the  time  at 
Richmond,  or  in  the  boat !" 

"  Oh  !"  Ripton  said,  well  assured  that  he  was  a  dwarf : 
*'  You  saw  her  safe  home  ?" 

"  Yes.  I've  been  there  for  the  last  couple  of  hours — 
talking.  She  talks  capitally :  she's  wonderfully  clever. 
She's  very  like  a  man,  only  much  nicer.     I  like  hei-." 

"  But,  Richard,  excuse  me — I'm  sure  I  don't  mean  to 
offend  you — but  now  you're  married  ....  perhaps  you 
couldn't  help  seeing  her  home,  but  I  think  you  really  indeed 
oughtn't  to  have  gone  upstairs." 

Ripton  delivered  this  opinion  with  a  modest  impressive- 
ness. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  said  Richard.  "  You  don't  sup- 
pose I  care  for  any  woman  but  my  little  darling  down 
there."     He  laughed. 

"  No  ;  of  course  not.  That's  absurd.  What  I  mean  is, 
that  people  perhaps  will — you  know,  they  do — they  say  all 
manner  of  things,  and  that  makes  unhappiness,  and  ...  I 
do  wish  you  were  going  home  to-moirow,  Ricky.  I  mean, 
to  your  dear  wife."  Ripton  blushed  and  looked  away  as  he 
spoke. 

The  hero  gave  one  of  his  scornful  glances.  "  So  you're 
anxious  about  my  reputation.  I  hate  that  way  of  looking 
on  women.  Because  they  have  been  once  misled — look  how 
much  weaker  they  are  ! — because  the  woi-ld  has  given  them 
an  ill  fame,  you  would  treat  them  as  contagious,  and  keep 
away  from  them  for  the  sake  of  your  character  !" 

''  It  would  be  dii'ferent  with  me,"  quoth  Ripton. 

"  How  ?"  asked  the  hero. 

"  Because  I'm  worse  than  you,"  was  all  the  logical 
explanation  Ripton  was  capable  of. 

*'  I  do  hope  you  will  go  home  soon,"  he  added. 
2a2 


556  TUK  OUDK  \T,  OF  r.lCITAr.D  FEVF.KET,, 

*'  Yes,"  said  Riclianl,  "  and  I,  so  do  I  hope  so.  But  I'vo 
work  to  do  iKnv.  I  dare  not,  1  cannot,  leave  it.  Lucy 
would  be  the  last  to  ask  me ; — You  saw  her  letter  yesterday. 
Now  listen  to  me,  Rip.  I  want  to  make  you  be  just  to 
women." 

Then  he  read  Ripton  a  lecture  on  ciring  women,  speaking; 
of  them  as  if  he  had  known  them  and  studied  them  for 
years.  Clever,  beautiful,  but  betrayed  by  love,  it  was  tlie 
tirst  duty  of  all  true  men  to  cherish  and  redeem  them.  "  We 
turn  them  into  curses.  Rip  ;  these  divine  creatures."  And 
the  world  suffered  for  it.  Tliat — that  was  the  root  of  all 
the  evil  in  the  world  ! 

"I  don't  feel  anger  or  horror  at  these  poor  women,  R  p! 
It's  strange.  I  knew  what  they  were  when  we  came  home 
in  the  boat.  But  I  do — it  tears  my  heart  to  see  a  young 
girl  given  over  to  an  old  man — a  man  she  doesn't  love. 
That's  shame' — Don't  speak  of  it." 

Forgetting  to  contest  the  premiss,  that  all  betrayed  women 
are  betrayed  by  love,  Ripton  was  silenced.  He,  like  mosi 
young  men,  had  pondered  somewhat  on  this  matter,  and  wag 
inclined  to  be  sentimental  when  he  was  not  hungry.  They 
walked  in  the  moonlight  by  the  railings  of  the  park. 
Iliehai-d  harangued  at  leisure,  while  Ripton's  teeth  chat- 
tered. Chivalry  might  be  dead,  but  there  was  still  some- 
thing to  do,  went  the  strain.  The  lady  of  the  day  had  not 
been  thrown  in  the  hero's  path  without  an  object,  he  said  ; 
and  he  was  sadly  right  there.  He  did  not  express  the  thing 
clearly;  nevertheless  Ripton  understood  him  to  mean  that 
he  intended  to  rescue  that  lady  from  further  transgressions, 
and  show  a  certain  scorn  of  the  world.  That  lady,  and  then 
other  ladies  unknown,  were  to  be  rescued.  Ripton  was  to 
help.  He  and  Ripton  were  to  be  the  knights  of  this  enter- 
prise. When  appealed  to,  Ripton  acquiesced,  and  shivered. 
Not  only  were  they  to  be  knights,  they  would  have  to  be 
Titans,  for  the  powers  of  the  world,  the  spurious  ruling 
Social  Gods,  would  have  to  be  defied  and  overthrown.  And 
Titan  number  one  flung  up  his  handsome  bold  face  as  if  to 
challenge  base  Jove  on  the  spot ;  and  Titan  number  two 
Bti-ained  the  upper  button  of  his  coat  to  meet  across  his 
pocket-handkerchief  on  his  chest,  and  warmed  his  finders 
un-ler  his  coat-tails.  The  moon  had  fallen  from  her  high 
seat  and  was  in  the  mists  of  the  West,  when  he  was  allowed 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY.  357 

to  seek  his  blankets,  and  the  cold  acting-  on  his  friend's 
eloquence  made  Ripton's  tlesh  very  contrite.  The  poor 
fellow  had  thinner  blood  than  the  hero  ;  but  his  heart  was 
good.  By  the  time  he  had  got  a  little  warmth  about  him, 
his  heart  gratefully  strove  to  encourage  him  in  the  concep- 
tion of  becoming  a  knight  and  a  Titan ;  and  so  striving 
liipton  fell  asleep  and  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MRS.    BERRT    ON    MATRIMONY. 

Behold  the  hero  embarked  in  the  redemption  of  an  erring 
beautiful  woman. 

"  Alas  !"  writes  the  Pilgrim  at  this  very  time  to  Lady 
Blandish,  "  I  cannot  get  that  legend  of  the  Serpent  from  me, 
the  more  I  think.  Has  he  not  caught  you,  and  ranked  you 
foremost  in  his  legions  ?  For  see  :  till  you  were  fashioned, 
the  fruits  hung  immobile  on  the  boughs.  They  swayed 
before  us,  glistening  and  cold.  The  hand  must  be  eager 
that  plucked  them.  They  did  not  come  down  to  us,  and 
smile,  and  speak  our  language,  and  read  our  thoughts,  and 
know  when  to  fly,  when  to  follow  !  how  surely  to  have  us  ! 

"  Do  but  mark  one  of  you  standing  openly  in  the  track  of 
the  Ser-pent.  What  shall  be  done  with  her  ?  I  fear  the 
world  is  wiser  than  its  judges  !  Turn  from  her,  says  the 
world.  By  day  the  sons  of  the  world  do.  It  darkens,  and 
they  dance  together  downward.  Then  comes  there  one  of 
the  world's  elect  who  deems  old  counsel  devilish ;  indiifer- 
ence  to  the  end  of  evil  worse  than  ils  y)ursuit.  He  comes  to 
reclaim  her.  Fi-om  deepest  bane  Avili  he  bring  her  back  to 
highest  blessing.  Is  not  that  a  bait  already  ?  Poor  fish  ! 
'tis  wondrons  flattering.  The  Serpent  has  slimed  her  so 
to  secure  him  !  With  slow  weary  steps  he  draws  her  into 
light :  she  clings  to  him  ;  she  is  human  ;  part  of  his  work, 
and  he  loves  it.  As  tlicy  mount  upward,  he  looks  on  her 
nioie,  while  she,  it  may  be,  looks  al)ove.     What  has  touched 


358  THE  OKPEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVRREL. 

liira  ?  What  has  passed  out  of  her,  and  into  him  ?  The 
Serpent  lanc;lis  below.  At  tho  gateways  of  the  Sun  they 
fall  together  !  " 

This  alliterative  production  was  written  without  any  scnao 
of  the  peril  that  makes  prophecy. 

It  suited  Sir  Austin  to  write  thus.  It  was  a  channel  to 
his  acrimony  moderated  through  his  philosophy.  The  letter 
was  a  reply  to  a  vehement  entreaty  from  Lady  Blandish  for 
him  to  come  up  to  Ilichard  and  forgive  him  thoroughly : 
Richard's  name  was  not  mentioned  in  it. 

"  He  tries  to  be  more  than  he  is,"  thought  the  lady :  and 
she  began  insensibly  to  conceive  hina  less  than  he  was. 

The  baronet  was  conscious  of  a  certain  false  gi-atification 
in  his  son's  apparent  obedience  to  his  wishes,  and  complete 
submission  ;  a  gratification  he  chose  to  accept  as  his  duo, 
without  dissecting  or  accounting  for  it.  The  intelligeneo 
reiterating  that  Richard  waited,  and  still  waited;  Richard's 
letters,  and  more  his  dumb  abiding  and  practical  penitence ; 
vindicated  humanity  sufficiently  to  stop  the  course  of  viru- 
lent aphorisms.  He  could  speak,  we  have  seen,  in  sorrow 
for  this  frail  nature  of  ours  that  he  had  once  stood  forth  to 
champion.  "  But  how  long  will  this  last  ?  "  he  demanded 
with  the  air  of  Hippias.  He  did  not  reflect  how  long  it  had 
lasted.  Indeed,  his  indigestion  of  w-rath  had  made  of  him  a 
moral  Dyspepsy. 

It  was  not  mere  obedience  that  held  Richard  from  the 
arms  of  his  young  wife  :  nor  was  it  this  new  knightly  enter- 
prise he  had  presumed  to  undertake.  Hero  as  he  was,  a 
youth,  open  to  the  insane  promptings  of  hot  blood,  he  was 
not  a  fool.  There  had  been  talk  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Doria  of  his  mother.  Now  that  he  had  broken  from  liis 
father,  his  heart  spoke  for  her.  She  lived,  he  knew:  he 
knew  no  more.  Words  painfully  hovering  along  the  borders 
of  plain  speech  had  been  communicated  to  him,  filling  him 
•with  moody  imaginings.  If  he  thought  of  her,  the  red  was 
on  his  face,  though  he  could  not  have  said  why.  But  now, 
after  canvassing  the  conduct  of  his  father,  and  throwing 
him  aside  as  a  terrible  riddle,  he  asked  Mrs.  Uoria  to  tell 
him  of  his  other  parent.  As  softly  as  she  could  slie  told  the 
story.  To  her  the  shame  was  past :  she  could  weep  for  the 
poor  lady.      Richard  dropped  no  t  ars.      Disgrace   of  this 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY.  359 

kind  is  always  present  to  a  son,  and,  educated  as  he  had 
been,  these  tidings  were  a  vivid  fire  in  his  brain.  He 
resolved  to  hunt  her  out,  and  take  her  from  the  man.  Here 
was  work  set  to  his  hand.  All  her  dear  husband  did  was 
right  to  Lucy.  She  encouraged  him  to  stay  for  that  pur- 
pose, thinking  it  also  served  another.  There  was  Tom 
Bakewell  to  watch  over  Lucy  :  there  was  woi-k  for  him  to 
do.  Whether  it  would  please  his  father  he  did  not  stop  to 
consider.     As  to  the  justice  of  the  act  let  us  say  nothing, 

On  Ripton  devolved  the  humbler  task  of  grubbing  for 
Sandoe's  place  of  residence ;  and  as  he  was  unacquainted 
with  the  name  by  which  the  poet  now  went  in  private,  his 
endeavours  were  not  immediately  successful.  The  friends 
met  in  the  evening  at  Lady  Blandish's  town-house,  or  at  the 
Foreys',  where  Mrs.  Doria  procured  the  reverer  of  the  Koyal 
]\Iartyr,  and  staunch  conservative,  a  favoui-able  reception. 
Pity,  deep  pity  for  Richard's  conduct  Ripton  saw  breathing 
out  of  Mrs.  Doria.  Algernon  Feverel  treated  him  with  a 
sort  of  rough  commiseration,  as  a  young  fellow  who  had 
spoilt  his  luck.  Pity  was  in  Lady  Blandish's  eyes,  though 
for  a  diffei'ent  cause.  She  doubted  if  she  did  well  in 
seconding  his  father's  unwise  scheme — supposing  him  to 
have  a  scheme.  She  saw  the  young  husband  encompassed 
by  dangers  at  a  critical  time.  Not  a  word  of  Mrs.  Mount 
had  been  breathed  to  her,  but  the  lady  had  some  knowledge 
of  life.  She  to  ached  on  delicate  verges  to  the  baronet  in 
her  letters,  and  he  understood  her  well  enough.  "  If  he 
loves  this  person  to  whom  he  has  bound  himself,  what  fear 
for  him  ?  Or  are  you  coming  to  think  it  something  that 
bears  the  name  of  love  because  we  have  to  veil  the  rightful 
appellation  p"  So  he  responrled  remote  among  the  moun- 
tains. She  tried  very  hard  to  speak  plainly.  Finally  he 
came  to  say  that  he  denied  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
his  son  specially,  that  he  for  a  time  might  be  put  to  the  test 
the  lady  seemed  to  dread.  This  was  almost  too  much  for 
Lady  Bhindish.  Love's  charity  boy  so  loftily  serene  now 
that  she  saw  him  half  denuded — a  thing  of  shanks  and  wrists 
• — was  a  trial  for  her  true  heart. 

Going  home  at  night  Richard  would  laugh  at  the  faces 
made  about  his  marriage.  "  We'll  carry  the  day.  Rip,  my 
Lucy  and  1  !  or  I'll  do  it  alone — what  there  is  to  do."  Ho 
sliglitly  adverted  to   a  natural  want  of  courage  in  wouica 


3G0  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  TEVEREL. 

which  Ripton  took  to  indicate  that  his  Bounty  was  deficient 
in  that  quality.  Up  leapt  the  Old  Dog;  "  I'm  sni-e  ihero 
never  was  a  bi-aver  creature  upon  earth,  Richard  !  She's 
as  bn.V-!  as  she's  lovely,  I'll  swear  she  is!  Look  how 
Bho  behaved  that  day !  How  her  voice  sounded !  She 
was  trembling  .  .  .  Brave  ?  She'd  follow  you  into  battle, 
Richard  !" 

And  Richard  rejoined  :  "  Talk  on,  dear  old  Rip  !  She's 
my  darling  love,  whatever  she  is  !  And  she  is  gloriously 
lovely.  No  eyes  are  like  hers.  And  Avhen  I  make  tlieni 
bashful — by  heaven  !  I'll  go  down  to-morrow  morning  the 
first  thing." 

Ripton  only  wondered  the  husband  of  such  a  treasure  could 
remain  apart  from  it.     So  thought  Richard  for  a  space. 

"  But  if  I  go,  Rip,"  he  said  despondently,  "  if  I  go  for  a 
day  even  I  shall  have  undone  all  my  work  with  my  father. 
She  says  it  herself — you  saw  it  in  her  last  letter." 

"  Yes,"  Ripton  assented,  and  the  words  "  Please  remember 
me  to  dear  Mr.  Thompson,"  fluttered  about  the  Old  Dog'.s 
heart. 

It  came  to  pass  that  Mrs.  Berry,  having  certain  business 
that  led  her  through  Kensington  Gardens,  spied  a  figure  that 
she  had  once  dandled  in  long  clothes,  and  helped  make  a 
man  of,  if  ever  woman  did.  He  was  walking  under  the  trees 
beside  a  ladj^,  talking  to  her  not  indifferently.  The  gentle- 
man was  her  l)ridcgTOom  and  her  babe.  "  I  know  his  back," 
said  Mrs.  Berry,  as  if  she  had  branded  a  mark  on  it  in 
infancy.  But  the  lady  was  not  her  bride.  Mrs.  Berry 
divei'ged  from  the  path,  and  got  before  them  on  the  left 
flank;  she  stared,  retreated,  and  came  round  upon  the  right. 
There  was  that  in  the  lady's  face  which  Mrs.  lierry  did  not 
like.  Her  innermost  question  was,  why  he  was  not  walking 
with  his  own  wife  ?  She  stopped  in  front  of  them.  They 
broke,  and  passed  about  her.  She  hemmed !  at  Richard's 
elbow.  The  lady  presently  made  a  laughing  remark  to  him, 
whereat  he  turned  to  look,  and  Mrs.  Berry  bobbed.  She 
had  to  bob  a  second  time,  and  then  he  remembered  the 
worthy  creature,  and  hailed  her  Penelope,  shaking  her  hand 
so  that  he  put  her  in  countenance  again.  Mrs.  Berry  wiis 
extremely  agitated.  He  dismissed  her,  promising  to  call 
Upon  her  in  the  evening.     She  heard  the  lady  slip  out  some. 


MRS.  BEKRY  ON  MATRIMONY.  361 

thing  from  a  side  of  her  lip,  and  they  both  langhed  an  she 
toddled  off  to  a  sheltering  tree  to  wipe  a  corner  of  each  eye. 
"  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  that  "woman,"  she  said,  and  re- 
peated it  resolutely. 

"  Why  doesn't  he  walk  arm-in-arm  with  her  ?"  was  her 
next  inquiry.  "  Where's  his  wife  ?"  succeeded  it.  After 
many  interrogations  of  the  sort,  she  arrived  at  naming  the 
lady  a  bold-faced  thing  ;  adding  subsequently,  brazen.  The 
lady  had  apparently  shown  Mrs.  Berry  that  she  wished  to 
get  rid  of  her,  and  had  checked  the  outpouring  of  her 
emotions  on  the  breast  of  her  babe.  "  I  know  a  lady  when 
I  see  one,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "  I  haven't  lived  with  'em  for 
nothing ;  and  if  she's  a  lady  bred  and  born,  I  wasn't  married 
in  the  church  alive." 

Then,  if  not  a  lady,  what  was  she  ?  Mrs.  Berry  desired 
to  know.  "  She's  imitation  lady,  I'm  sure  she  is  !"  Berry 
vowed.     "  I  say  she  don't  look  proper.'* 

Establishing  the  lady  to  be  a  spurious  article,  however, 
what  was  one  to  think  of  a  married  man  in  company  with 
such?  "Oh  no!  it  ain't  that!"  Mrs.  Berry  returned 
immediately  on  the  charitable  tack.  "  Belike  it's  some  one 
of  his  acquaintance  've  married  her  for  her  looks,  and  he've 
just  met  her.  .  .  .  Why  it  'd  be  as  bad  as  my  Berry  !"  the 
relinquished  spouse  of  Berry  ejaculated,  in  horror  at  the 
idea  of  a  second  man  being  so  monstrous  in  wickedness. 
"  Just  coupled,  too  !"  Mrs.  Berry  groaned  on  the  suspicious 
side  of  the  debate.  "  And  such  a  sweet  young  thing  for  his 
wife !  But  no,  I'll  never  believe  it.  Not  if  he  tell  me  so 
himself  !     And  men  don't  do  that,"  she  whimpei-ed. 

Women  are  swift  at  coming  to  conclusions  in  these  mat- 
ters ;  soft  women  exceedingly  swift :  and  soft  women  who 
have  been  b'-trayed  are  ra])id  beyond  measure.  Mrs.  Berry 
had  not  cogitated  long  ere  she  pronounced  distinctly  and 
without  a  shadow  of  dubiosity :  "  My  opinion  is — mari-ied 
or  not  married,  and  wheresomcver  he  pick  her  up — she's 
nothin'  more  nor  less  than  a  Bella  Donna  !"  as  which  poi- 
sonous plant  she  forthwith  registered  the  lady  in  the 
botanical  note-book  of  her  brain.  It  would  have  astonished 
Mrs.  Mount  to  have  heard  her  person  so  accurately  hit  off 
at  a  glance. 

In  the  evening  Richard  made  good  his  promise,  accom- 
panied by  Riptou.      Mrs.  Berry  opened  tlie  door   to  them. 


362  THE  OKDEAL  01"  lUCIIARD  FEVEREL. 

She  could  not  wait  to  get  him  into  the  parh)ur.  "  Yuu'ro 
my  own  blessed  babe ;  and  I'm  as  good  as  your  mother, — 
though  I  didn't  suck  ye,  bein'  a  maid  !"  she  cried,  falling 
into  his  arms,  while  Richaid  did  his  "best  to  support  the 
unexpected  burden.  Then  reproaching  him  tenderly  for  his 
gnile — at  mention  of  which  Ripton  chuckled,  deeming  it  his 
own  must  honourable  portion  of  the  plot — Mrs.  Berry  led 
them  into  the  parlour,  and  revealed  to  Richard  who  she 
was,  and  how  she  had  tossed  him,  and  hugged  him,  and 
kissed  him  all  over,  when  he  was  only  that  big — showing 
liitu  her  stumpy  fat  arm.  "I  kissed  ye  from  head  to  tail,  I 
did,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "and  you  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it. 
It's  be  hojied  you'll  never  have  nothin'  worse  come  t'  ye,  my 
dear!" 

Richard  assured  her  he  was  not  a  bit  ashamed,  but  warned 
her  that  she  must  not  do  it  now,  Mrs.  Berry  admitting  it 
was  out  of  the  question  now,  and  now  that  he  had  a  wife, 
moreover.  The  young  men  laughed,  and  Ripton  laughing 
over-loudly  drew  on  himself  Mrs.  Berry's  attention  :  "  But 
that  !Mr.  Thompson  there — however  he  can  look  me  in  the 
face  after  his  inn'cence !  helping  blindfold  an  old  woman  ! — 
though  I  ain't  sorry  for  what  I  did — that  I'm  free  for  to  say, 
and  it's  over,  and  blessed  be  all  !  Amen  !  So  now  where  is 
she  and  how  is  she,  Mr.  Richard,  my  dear — it's  only  cuttin' 
off  the  's'  and  you  are  as  you  was. — Why  didn't  ye  bring 
her  with  ye  to  see  old  Berry  ?" 

Richard  hurriedly  explained  that  Lucy  was  still  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight. 

"  Oh !  and  you've  left  her  for  a  day  or  two  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Berry. 

"  Good  God !  I  wish  it  had  been  a  day  or  two,"  cried 
Richard. 

"  Ah  !  and  how  long  have  it  been  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Berry, 
her  heart  beginning  to  beat  at  his  manner  of  speaking. 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,"  said  Richard. 

"  Oh  !  you  never  been  dudgeonin'  already  ?  Oh  !  you 
haven't  been  peckin'  at  one  another  yet  ?"  Mrs.  Berry 
exclaimed. 

Ripton  interposed  to  tell  her  such  fears  were  unfounded. 

"  Then  how  long  ha'  you  been  divided  ?" 

In  a  guilty  voice  Ripton  stammered  "  since  September." 

•'  September !"    breathed    Mrs.     Berry,    counting    on    her 


MRS.  BERRY  ON  MATRIMONY.  363 

fino-ers,  "  September,  October,  Nov — two  months  and  more  ! 
nigh  three!  A  young  married  husband  away  from  the  wife 
of  his  bosom  nigh  three  months  !  Oh  my  !  Oh  my  !  what 
do  that  mean  ?" 

"  My  father  sent  for  me — I'm  waiting  to  see  him,"  said 
Richard.  A  few  more  words  helped  Mrs.  Berry  to  compre- 
hend the  condition  of  affairs.  Then  Mrs.  Berry  spread  her 
lap,  flattened  out  her  hands,  fixed  her  eyes,  and  spoke. 

"  My  dear  young  gentleman  I — I'd  like  to  call  ye  my  darlin' 
babe  !  I'm  going  to  speak  as  a  mother  to  ye,  whether  ye 
likes  it  or  no ;  and  what  old  Berry  says,  you  won't  mind,  for 
she's  had  ye  when  there  was  no  conventionals  about  ye,  and 
she  has  the  feelin's  of  a  mother  to  you,  though  humble  her 
state.  If  there's  one  that  know  matrimony  it's  me,  my  dear, 
though  Berry  did  give  me  no  more  but  nine  months  of  it : 
and  I've  known  the  worst  of  matrimony,  which,  if  you  wants 
to  be  woful  wise,  there  it  is  for  ye.  For  what  have  been  my 
gain  ?  That  man  gave  me  nothin'  but  his  name;  and  Bessy 
Andrews  was  as  good  as  Bessy  Berry,  though  both  is  '  Bs,' 
and  says  he,  you  was  '  A,'  and  now  you's  '  B,'  so  you're  my 
A  B,  he  says,  write  yourself  down  that,  he  says,  the  bad 
man,  with  his  jokes  ! — Berry  went  to  service."  Mrs.  Berry's 
softness  came  upon  her.  "  So  I  tell  ye,  Berry  went  to  ser- 
vice.  He  left  the  wife  of  his  bosom  forlorn  and  he  went  to 
service  ;  because  he  were  al'ays  an  ambitious  man,  and 
wasn't,  so  to  speak,  happy  out  of  his  uniform — which  was 
his  livery — not  even  in  my  ai-ms :  and  he  let  me  know  it. 
He  got  among  them  kitchen  sluts,  which  was  my  mournin' 
ready  made,  and  worse  than  a  widow's  cap  to  me,  which  is 
no  shame  to  wear,  and  some  say  becoming.  There's  no  man 
as  ever  lived  know  better  than  my  Berry  how  to  show  his 
le  ^'•s  to  advantage,  and  gals  look  at  'em.  I  don't  wonder 
now  that  Berry  was  prostrated.  His  temptations  was 
strong,  and  his  llcsh  was  weak.  Then  what  I  say  is,  that 
f  )V  a  young  married  man — be  he  whomsoever  he  may  be — 
to  be  sep<arated  from  the  wife  of  his  bosom — a  young  sweet 
thing,  and  he  an  innocent  yonng  gentleman  ! — so  to  sunder, 
in  tlieir  state,  and  be  kep'  from  each  other,  I  say  it's  as  bad 
as  bad  can  be  !  For  what  is  matrimony,  my  deai'S  ?  We're 
told  it's  a  holy  Ordnance.  And  why  are  ye  so  comfoilablo 
in  matrimony?  For  that  ye  are  not  a  einnin'!  And  they 
that  Bevel's  ye  they  tempts  ye  to  stray :  and  you  learn  too 


3CA  THE  ORPEAL  OF  RTCRARD  FEVEREL. 

late  the  incaniti'  o'  them  blcssin's  of  the  priest — as  it  waa 
oitlainod.  Separate — what  comes  ?  Fust  it's  like  the  cir- 
ouh\tioii  of  your  l)lood  a-stoppin' — all  goes  wrong.  Then 
there's  misuiulerstamliugs — ye've  both  lost  the  key.  Then, 
behold  ye,  there's  birds  'o  prey  hoverin'  over  each  on  ye, 
and  it's  which'll  be  snapped  up  fust.  Then — Oh,  dear!  Oh, 
dear !  it  be  like  the  devil  come  into  the  world  again."  Mrs. 
I>erry  struck  her  hands  and  moaned.  "A  day  I'll  give  ye: 
Til  go  so  far  as  a  week:  but  there's  the  outside.  Three 
months  dwellin'  apart !  That's  not  matrimony,  it's  divorcin' ! 
what  can  it  be  to  her  but  widowhood  ?  widowhood  with  no 
cap  to  show  for  it!  And  what  can  it  be  to  you,  my  dear? 
Think!  you  been  a  bachelor  three  months!  and  a  bachelor 
man,"  Mrs.  Berry  shook  her  head  most  dolefully,  "  he  ain't 
a  widow  woman.  I  don't  go  to  compare  you  to  Berry,  my 
dear  young  gentleman.  Some  men's  '.arts  is  vagabonds  born 
— they  must  go  astray — it's  there  natur'  to.  But  all  men 
are  men,  and  I  know  the  foundation  of  'em,  by  reason  of  my 
woe." 

Mrs.  Berry  paused.  Richard  was  respectfully  attentive  to 
the  sermon.  The  truth  in  the  good  creature's  address  was 
not  to  be  disputed,  or  despised,  notwithstanding  the  inclina- 
tion to  laugh  provoked  by  her  quaint  way  of  putting  it. 
Ripton  nodded  encouragingly  at  every  sentence,  for  he  saw 
her  drift,  and  wished  to  second  it. 

Seeking  for  an  illustration  of  her  meaning,  Mrs.  Berry 
solemnly  continued  :  "  We  all  know  what  checked  prespira- 
tion  is."  But  neither  of  the  young  gentlemen  could  resist 
this.     Out  they  burst  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Laugh  away,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "  I  don't  mind  ye.  I 
Bay  again,  we  all  do  know  what  checked  prespiration  is.  It 
fly  to  the  lungs,  it  gives  ye  mortal  inflammation,  and  it 
carries  ye  olf.  Then  1  say  checked  matrimony  is  as  bad. 
It  fly  to  the  heart,  and  it  carries  off  the  virtue  that's  in  ye, 
and  you  might  as  well  be  dead  !  Them  that  is  joined  it's 
their  salvation  not  to  separate  !  It  don't  so  much  matter 
before  it.  That  Mr.  Thompson  there — if  he  go  astray,  it 
ain't  from  the  blessed  fold.  He  hurt  himself  alone — not 
double,  and  belike  treble,  for  who  can  say  now  what  may 
be  ?  There's  time  for  it.  I'm  for  holding  back  young 
people  so  that  they  knows  their  minds,  howsomever  they 
rattles  about  their  hearts.     I  ain't  a  speeder  of  matrimony, 


MUS,  BERRY  ON  MATEIMONT.  365 

and  good's  my  reason  !  but  where  it's  been  done — where 
they're  lawfully  joined,  and  their  bodies  made  one,  I  do 
say  this,  that  to  put  division  between  'em  then,  it's  to 
make  wanderin'  comets  of  'em — creatures  without  a  objeclc, 
and  no  soul  can  say  what  they's  good  for  but  to  rush 
about ! " 

Mrs.  Berry  here  took  a  heavy  breath,  as  one  who  has  said 
her  utmost  for  the  time  being. 

"  My  dear  old  girl,"  Richard  went  up  to  her  and  applaud- 
ing her  on  the  shoulder,  "  you're  a  very  wise  old  womnn. 
But  you  mustn't  speak  to  me  as  if  I  wanted  to  stop  here. 
I'm  compelled  to.     I  do  it  for  her  good  chiefly." 

"  It's  your  father  that's  doin'  it,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Well,  I'm  waiting  his  pleasure." 

"  A  pretty  pleasure  !  puttin'  a  snake  in  the  nest  of  young 
turtle-doves  !     And  why  don't  she  come  up  to  you  ?" 

"  Well,  that  you  must  ask  her.  The  fact  is,  she's  a  little 
timid  girl — she  wants  me  to  see  him  first,  and  when  I've 
made  all  right,  then  she'll  come." 

"A  little  timid  girl!"  cried  Mrs.  Berry.  "  Oh,  lor',  how 
she  must  ha'  deceived  ye  to  make  ye  think  that !  Look  at 
that  ring,"  she  held  out  her  finger,  "  ho'"s  a  stranger:  he's 
not  my  lawful !  You  know  what  ye  did  to  me,  my  dear. 
Could  I  get  my  own  wedding-ring  back  from  her  ?  '  No  !' 
says  she,  firm  as  a  rock,  '  he  said,  with  this  ring!  thee  wed  ' — 
I  think  I  see  her  now,  with  her  pretty  eyes  and  lovesmne 
locks — a  darlin' ! — And  that  ring  she'd  keep  to,  come  life, 
come  death.  And  she  must  ha'  been  a  rock  for  me  to  give  in 
to  her  in  that.  For  what's  the  consequence  ?  Here  am  I," 
Mrs.  BeiTy  smoothed  down  the  back  of  her  hand  mournfully, 
"  here  am  I  in  a  strange  ring,  that's  like  a  strange  man 
holdin'  of  me,  and  me  a  wearin'  of  it  just  to  seem  decent, 

and  feelin'  all  over  no  better  than  a  b a  big — that  nasty 

name  I  can't  abide ! — I  tell  you,  my  dear,  she  ain't  soft,  no  ! 
— except  to  the  ni.an  of  her  heart ;  and  tlie  best  of  women's 
too  soft  thei-e — more's  our  soi-i'ow  !  " 

"  Well,  well !"  said  Richard,  who  thought  he  knew, 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Berry,"  Ripton  struck  in,  "Mrs. 
Richard  would  do  anything  in  the  world  her  husband  asked 
her,  I'm  quite  sure." 

"  Bless  you  for  your  good  o])ini()n,  Mr.  Thoinpson  !  Why, 
see  her!  she  ain't  frail  on  her  feet ;  she  looks  ye  straight  in 


306  TIIK  OKPKAL  OK  UR'IIAKI)  KEVKKEL. 

the  eyes ;  she  ain't  one  of  your  hang-down  misses.  Look 
how  she  behaved  at  the  ceremony  !" 

"Ah  !"  sighed  Ri|)ton. 

"  And  if  you'd  ha'  seen  her  when  she  spoke  to  rae  about 
my  ring!  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear  Mi\  Richai-d,  if  she 
blintU'd  you  about  the  nerve  she've  got,  it  was  somethin'  she 
thouglit  she  ought  to  do  for  your  sake,  and  I  wish  I'd  been 
by  to  counsel  her,  poor  blessed  babe  ! — And  how  much  longer, 
now%  can  ye  stay  divided  from  that  darlin'  ?" 

Kichard  paced  up  and  down  uneasily. 

"  A  father's  will,"  urged  Mrs.  Berry,  "  that's  a  son's  law ; 
but  he  mustn't  go  again'  the  law^s  of  his  natur'  to  do  it." 

"  Just  be  quiet  at  present — talk  of  other  things,  there's  a 
good  woman,"  said  Richard. 

Mrs.  Berry  meekly  folded  her  arms. 

"  How  strange,  now,  our  meetin'  like  this !  meetin'  at  all, 
too  !"  she  remarked  contemplatively.  "  It's  them  advertise- 
ments !  They  brings  people  together  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  for  good  or  for  bad.  I  often  say,  there's  more  lucky 
accidents,  or  unlucky  ones,  since  advertisements  was  the 
rule,  than  ever  there  was  before.  They  make  a  number  of 
romances,  depend  upon  it !  Do  you  walk  much  in  the 
Gardens,  my  dear?" 

"  Now  and  then,"  said  Richard. 

"  Very  pleasant  it  is  there  with  the  fine  folks  and  flowers 
and  titled  people,"  continued  Mrs.  Berry.  "  That  was  a 
handsome  woman  you  was  a-walkin'  beside,  this  mornin'." 

"  Very,"  said  Richard. 

"  She  was  a  handsome  woman  !  or  I  should  say,  is,  for  her 
day  ain't  past,  and  she  know  it.  I  thought  at  first — by  her 
back — it  might  ha'  been  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Forey ;  for  she  do 
step  out  well  and  hold  up  her  shoulders :  straight  as  a  dart 
she  be  !  but  when  I  come  to  see  her  face — Oh,  dear  me  !  says 
1,  this  ain't  one  of  the  family.  They  none  of  'em  got  such 
bold  faces — nor  no  lady  as  I  know  have.  But  she's  a  fine 
woman — that  nobody  can  gainsay." 

Mrs.  Berry  talked  further  of  the  fine  woman.  It  was  a 
liberty  she  took  to  speak  in  this  disrespectful  tone  of  her, 
and  Mrs.  Berry  was  quite  aware  that  she  was  laying  herself 
open  to  rebuke.  She  had  her  end  in  ^^ew.  No  rebuke  was 
uttered,  and  during  her  talk  she  observed  iutercoarse  passing 
between  the  eyes  of  the  young  men. 


MRS.  BEREY  ON  MATRIMONY  3^7 

"  Look  here,  Penelope,"  Richard  stopped  her  at  last.  "  Will 
it  make  you  comfortable  if  I  tell  you  I'll  obey  the  laws  of  my 
nature  and  go  down  at  the  end  of  the  week  ?" 

"  I'll  thank  the  Lord  of  heaven  if  you  do  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Very  well,  then — be  happy — I  will.  Now  listen.  I 
want  you  to  keep  your  rooms  for  me — those  she  had.  T 
expect,  in  a  da}^  or  two,  to  bring  a  lady  here " 

"  A  lady  ?"  faltered  Mrs.  Berry. 

"  Yes.     A  lady." 

"  May  I  make  so  bold  as  to  ask  what  lady  ?  " 

"  You  may  not.     Not  now.     Of  course  you  will  know." 

Mrs.  Berry's  short  neck  made  the  best  imitation  it  could  of 
an  offended  swan's  action.  She  was  very  angry.  She  said 
she  did  not  like  so  many  ladies,  which  natural  objection 
Richard  met  by  saying  that  there  was  only  one  lady. 

"  And  Mrs.  Berry,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice.  "  You 
will  ti-eat  her  as  you  did  my  dear  girl,  for  she  will  require 
not  only  shelter  but  kindness.  I  would  rather  leave  her  with 
you  than  with  any  one.     She  has  been  very  unfortunate." 

His  serious  air  and  habitual  tone  of  command  fascinated 
the  softness  of  Berry,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  gone  that 
she  spoke  out.  "  Unfort'nate  !  He's  going  to  bring  me  an 
unfoi-t'uate  female  !  Oh  !  not  from  my  babe  can  I  bear  that ! 
Never  will  I  have  her  here  !  I  see  it.  It's  that  bold-faced 
woman  he's  got  mixed  up  in,  and  she've  been  and  made  the 
young  man  think  he'll  go  for  to  refoi-m  her.  It's  one  o'  their 
arts — that  is  ;  and  he's  too  innocent  a  young  man  to  mean 
any  thin'  else.  But  I  ain't  a  house  of  Magdalens — no  !  and 
sooner  than  have  her  here  I'd  have  the  roof  fall  over  me,  I 
would." 

She  sat  down  to  eat  her  supper  on  the  sublime  resolve. 

In  love,  Mrs.  Berry's  charity  was  all  on  the  side  of  the  law, 
and  this  is  the  case  with  many  of  her  sisters.  The  Pilgrim 
sneers  at  them  for  it,  and  would  have  us  credit  that  it  is 
their  admirable  instinct  which,  at  the  expense  of  every  virtue 
save  one,  preserves  the  artificial  barrier  sini])ly  to  impose 
upon  us.  Men,  I  presume,  are  hardly  fair  judges,  and  should 
stand  aside  and  mark. 

Pearly  next  day  Mrs.  Berry  bundled  off  to  Richard's  hotel 
to  let  him  know  her  determination.  She  did  not  find  him 
there.  Returning  lumieward  through  the  Park,  she  beheld 
liini  on  horseback  riding  by  <he  side  of  the  identical  lady. 


368  TUE  ORDEAL  OP  RlCUAP^n  FF.VEREL. 

The  sight  of  tliis  public  exposure  Rhocked  lier  more  tlian  tho 
secret  walk  under  the  trees.  "  You  don't  look  near  your 
reform  yet,"  Mrs.  Berry  apostrophized  her.  "You  don't 
look  to  me  one  that'd  come  the  Fair  Penitent  till  you've  left 
off  hein'  fair — if  then  you  do,  which  some  of  ye  don't.  Laugh 
away  and  show  yer  airs  !  Spite  o'  your  hat  and  feather,  and 
your  ridin'- habit,  you're  a  Bella  Donna."  Setting  her  down 
again  absolutely  for  such,  whatever  it  might  signify,  Mrs. 
Berry  had  a  virtuous  glow. 

In  the  evening  she  heard  the  noise  of  wheels  stopping  at 
the  door.  "Never!"  she  rose  from  her  chair  to  exclaim. 
"  He  ain't  rided  her  out  in  the  mornin',  and  been  and  made 
a  Magdalen  of  her  afore  dark  ?  " 

A  lady  veiled  was  brought  into  the  house  by  Richard. 
Mrs.  Berry  feebly  tried  to  bar  his  progress  in  the  passage. 
He  pushed  past  her,  and  conducted  the  lady  into  the  parlour 
without  speaking.  Mrs.  Berry  did  not  follow.  She  heard 
him  murmur  a  few  sentences  within.  Then  he  came  out. 
All  her  crest  stood  up,  as  she  whispered  vigorously,  "  Mr. 
Richard  !  if  that  woman  stay  here,  I  go  forth.  j\ly  house 
ain't  a  penitentiary  for  unfort'nate  females,  sir " 

He  frowned  at  her  curiously  ;  but  as  she  was  on  the  point 
of  renewing  her  indignant  protest,  he  clapped  his  hand 
across  her  mouth,  and  spoke  words  in  her  ear  that  had  awful 
import  to  her.  She  trembled,  breathing  low  :  "  My  God, 
forgive  me  !  Lady  Feverel  is  it  ?  Your  mother,  Mr. 
Richard  ? "  And  her  virtue  was  humbled  before  Lady 
FevereL 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


AN   KXCHANTRESS. 


One  may  suppose  that  a  prematurely  aged,  oily  little 
man ;  a  poet  in  bad  circumstances  ;  a  decrepit  butterfly 
chained  to  a  disappointed  inkstand,  will  not  put  out  strenu- 
ous energies  to  retain  his  ancient  paramour  when  a  robust 
young  man  comes  imperatively  to  demand  his  mother  of  him 
in  her  person.  The  colloquy  was  short  between  Diaper 
Sandoe  and  Richard.     The  question  was  referred  to  the  poor 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  369 

spiritless  lady,  who,  seeing  that  her  son  made  no  question  of 
it,  cast  herself  on  his  hands.  Small  loss  to  her  was  Diaper  ; 
but  he  was  the  loss  of  habit,  and  that  is  something  to  a 
woman  who  has  lived.  The  blood  of  her  son  had  been 
running  so  long  alien  from  her  that  the  sense  of  her  mother- 
hood smote  her  now  with  strangeness,  and  Richard's  stern 
gentleness  seemed  like  dreadful  justice  come  upon  her.  Her 
heart  had  almost  forgotten  its  maternal  functions.  She 
called  him  Sir,  till  he  bade  her  remember  he  was  her  son. 
Her  voice  sounded  to  him  like  that  of  a  broken-throated 
lamb,  so  painful  and  weak  it  was,  with  the  plaintive  stop  in 
the  utterance.  When  he  kissed  her,  hsr  skin  was  cold.  Her 
thin  hand  fell  out  of  his  when  his  grasp  relaxed.  "  Can  sin 
hunt  one  like  this  ?  "  he  asked,  bitterly  reproaching  himself 
for  the  shame  she  had  caused  him  to  endure,  and  a  deep 
compassion  filled  his  breast. 

Poetic  justice  had  been  dealt  to  Diaper  the  poet.  He 
thought  of  all  he  had  sacrificed  for  this  woman — the  com- 
fortable quarters,  the  friend,  the  happy  flights.  He  could 
not  but  accuse  her  of  unfaithfulness  in  leaving  him  in  his 
old  age.  Habit  had  legalized  his  union  with  her.  He  wrote 
as  pathetically  of  the  break  of  habit  as  men  feel  at  the  death 
of  love ;  and  when  we  are  old  and  have  no  fair  hope  tossing 
golden  locks  before  us,  a  wound  to  this  second  nature  is  quite 
as  sad.     I  know  not  even  if  it  be  not  actually  sadder. 

Day  by  day  Richard  visited  his  mother.  Lady  Blandish 
and  Ripton  alone  were  in  the  secret.  Adrian  let  him  do  as 
he  pleased.  He  thought  proper  to  tell  him  that  the  public 
recognition  he  accorded  to  a  particular  lady  was,  in  the 
present  state  of  the  world,  scarcely  prudent. 

"  'Tis  a  proof  to  me  of  your  moral  rectitude,  my  son,  but 
the  world  will  not  think  so.  No  one  character  is  sufficient 
to  cover  two — in  a  Protestant  country  especially.  The 
divinity  that  doth  hedge  a  Bishop  would  have  no  chance  in 
contact  with  your  Madam  Danae.  Methinks  1  see  the 
reverend  man  !  though  he  takes  excellent  care  to  make  it  a 
contemptible  hyf)othesis.  That  part  of  his  pastoral  duty  he 
wisely  leaves  to  weanling  laymen.  Drop  the  woman,  my 
son.  Or  permit  me  to  speak  what  you  would  have  her 
bear." 

Richard  listened  to  him  with  disgust. 
2  B 


870  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FTVEREL. 

"  Well,  you've  had  my  doctorial  warning,"  said  Adrian, 
nnd  phincri'd  back  into  his  book. 

\Vlun  Laily  Ffvi-ivl  had  ivvived  to  take  part  in  tlie  con- 
8ultatiuns  Mrs.  Berry  perpetually  opened  on  the  subject  of 
Richard's  matrimonial  duty,  another  chain  was  cast  about 
him.  "  Do  not,  oh,  do  not  offend  your  father !  "  was  her  one 
repeated  supplication.  Sir  Austin  had  grown  to  be  a  vindic- 
tive phantom  in  her  mind.  She  never  wept  but  when  she 
said  this. 

So  Mrs.  Berry,  to  whom  Richard  had  once  made  mention 
of  Lady  Blandish  as  the  only  friend  he  had  among  women, 
bundled  off  in  her  black-satin  dress  to  obtain  an  interview 
with  her,  and  an  ally.  After  coming  to  an  understanding 
on  the  matter  of  the  visit,  and  reiterating  many  of  her 
views  concerning  young  married  people.  Mi's.  Berry  said  : 
"  My  lady,  if  I  may  speak  so  bold,  I'd  say  the  sin  that's 
bein'  done  is  the  sin  o'  the  lookers  on.  And  when  every- 
body appear  frighted  by  that  young  gentleman's  father,  I'll 
say — hopin'  your  pardon — they  no  cause  be  frighted  at  all. 
For  though  it's  nigh  twenty  year  since  I  knew  him,  and  1 
knew  him  then  just  sixteen  months — no  more — I'll  say  his 
heart's  as  soft  as  a  woman's,  which  I've  cause  for  to  know. 
And  that's  it.  That's  where  everybody's  deceived  by  him, 
and  I  was.  It's  because  he  keeps  his  face,  and  makes  ye 
think  you're  dealin'  with  a  man  of  iron,  and  all  the  while 
there's  a  woman  underneath.  And  a  man  that's  like  a 
woman  he's  the  puzzle  o'  life  !  We  can  see  through  our- 
selves, my  lady,  and  we  can  see  through  men,  but  one  o'  tnat 
sort — he's  like  somethin'  out  of  nature.  Then  I  say — hopin' 
be  excused — what's  to  do  is  for  to  treat  him  like  a  woman, 
and  not  for  to  let  him  'ave  his  own  way — which  he  don't 
know  himself,  and  is  why  nobody  else  do.  Let  that  sweet 
young  couple  come  together,  and  be  wholesome  in  spite  of 
him,  I  say;  and  then  give  him  time  to  come  round,  just  liko 
a  woman  ;  and  round  he'll  come,  and  give  'em  his  blessin', 
and  we  shall  know  we've  made  him  comfortable.  He's 
angry  because  matrimony  have  come  between  him  and  his 
son,  and  he,  woman-like,  he's  wantiu'  to  treat  what  is  as  if 
it  isn't.  But  matrimony's  a  holier  than  him.  It  began  long 
long  before  him,  and  it's  be  hoped  will  endoor  long's  the 
time  after,  if  the  world's  not  coming  to  rack — wishin'  him 
no  haTm.** 


AN  ENCHANTEESS.  371 

Now  Mrs.  Berry  only  put  Lady  Blandisli's  thoughts  in 
bad  English.  The  lady  took  upon  herself  seriously  to 
advise  Richard  to  send  for  his  wife.  He  wrote,  bidding  her 
come.  Lucy,  however,  had  wits,  and  inexperienced  wits  are 
as  a  little  knowledge.  In  pursuance  of  her  sage  plan  to 
make  the  family  feel  her  worth,  and  to  conquer  the  members 
of  it  one  by  one,  she  had  got  up  a  correspondence  with  Adi'ian, 
whom  it  tickled.  Adrian  constantly  assured  her  all  was 
going  well :  time  would  heal  the  wound  if  both  the  offenders 
had  the  fortitude  to  be  patient :  he  fancied  he  saw  sigiis  of 
the  baronet's  relenting  :  they  must  do  nothing  to  arrest  those 
favourable  symptoms.  Indeed  the  wise  youth  was  languidly 
seeking  to  produce  them.  He  wrote,  and  felt,  as  Liicy's 
benefactor.  So  Lucy  replied  to  her  husband  a  cheerful 
rigmarole  he  could  make  nothing  of,  save  that  she  was  happy 
in  hope,  and  still  had  fears.  Then  Mrs.  Bex-ry  ti-ained  her 
fist  to  indite  a  letter  to  her  bride.  Her  bride  answered  it  by 
saying  she  trusted  to  time.  "  You  poor  marter,"  Mrs.  Berry 
wrote  back,  "  I  know  what  your  sufferin's  be.  They  is  the 
onlykinda  wife  should  never  hide  from  her  husband.  He  thinks 
all  sorts  of  things  if  she  can  abide  being  away.  And  you  trust- 
ing to  time,  why  it's  like  trusting  not  to  catch  cold  out  of  your 
natural  clothes."     There  was  no  shaking  Lucy's  firmness. 

Richard  gave  it  up.  He  began  to  think  that  the  life  lying 
behind  him  was  the  life  of  a  fool.  What  had  he  done  in  it  ? 
He  had  burnt  a  rick  and  got  married !  He  associated  the 
two  acts  of  his  existence.  Where  was  the  hero  he  was  to 
have  carved  out  of  Tom  Bakewell ! — a  wretch  he  had  taught 
to  lie  and  chicane :  and  for  what  ?  Great  heavens  !  how 
ignoble  did  a  flash  from  the  light  of  his  aspirations  made  his 
marriage  appear  !  The  young  man  sought  amusement.  He 
allowed  his  aunt  to  drag  him  into  society,  and  sick  of  that 
he  made  late  evening  calls  on  Mrs.  Mount,  oblivious  of  the 
purpose  he  had  in  visiting  her  at  all.  Her  man-like  conver- 
sation, which  he  took  for  honesty,  was  a  refreshing  change 
on  fair  lips. 

"  Call  me  Bella :  I'll  call  you  Dick,"  said  she.  And  it 
came  to  be  Bella  and  Dick  between  them.  No  mention  of 
Bella  occurred  in  Richard's  letters  to  Lucy. 

Mrs.  Mount  spoke  quite  openly  of  herself.  "  I  pretend  to 
be  no  better  than  I  am,"  she  said,  "  and  I  know  I'm  no  worse 
than  many  a  woman  who  holds  her  head  high."   To  back  this 

2  H  2 


372  TnE  onPEAL  of  rtciiard  frveuel. 

b1)0  told  him  stories  of  blooming  darae8  of  good  repute,  and 
poured  a  little  social  sewerage  into  his  ears. 

Also  she  understood  him.  "  What  you  want,  my  dear 
Dick,  is  something  to  do.  You  went  and  got  married  like  a 
— hum  ! — friends  must  be  respectful.  Go  into  the  army. 
Try  the  turf.  I  can  put  you  up  to  a  trick  or  two — friends 
should  make  themselves  useful." 

She  told  him  what  she  liked  in  him.  "  You're  the  only 
man  I  was  ever  alone  with  who  don't  talk  to  me  of  love  and 
make  me  feel  sick.  I  hate  men  who  can't  speak  to  a  woman 
Bensibly. — Just  wait  a  minute."  She  left  him  and  presently 
returned  with,  "  Ah,  Dick  !  old  fellow  !  how  ai'e  you  ?  " — 
arrayed  like  a  cavalier,  one  arm  stuck  in  her  side,  her  hat 
jauntily  cocked,  and  a  pretty  oath  on  her  lips  to  give  reality 
to  the  costume.  "  What  do  you  think  of  me  ?  Wasn't  it  a 
shame  to  make  a  woman  of  me  Avhen  I  was  born  to  be  a  man  ?" 

"  1  don't  know  that,"  said  Richard,  for  the  contrast  in  her 
attire  tot  hose  shootingeyes  and  lips,  aired  her  sex  be  witchingly. 

"  What !  you  think  I  don't  do  it  well  ?  " 

"  Charming  !  but  I  can't  forget  ..." 

"  Now  that  is  too  bad  !  "  she  pouted. 

Then  she  proposed  that  they  should  go  out  into  the  mid- 
night streets  arm-in-arm,  and  oat  they  went  and  had  gi-eat 
fits  of  laughter  at  her  impertinent  manner  of  using  her  eye- 
glass, and  outrageous  all'ectation  of  the  supreme  dandy. 

"  They  take  up  men,  Dick,  for  going  about  in  women's 
clothes,  and  vice  versaw,  I  suppose.  You'll  bail  me,  old 
fellaa,  if  I  have  to  make  my  bow  to  the  beak,  won't  you  ? 
Say  it's  becas  I'm  an  honest  woman  and  don't  care  to  hide 
the — a — unmentionables  when  I  wear  them — as  the  t'others 
do,"  sprinkled  with  the  dandy's  famous  invocations. 

He  began  to  conceive  romance  in  that  sort  of  fun. 

"  You're  a  wopper,  my  brave  Dick  !  won't  let  any  peeler 
take  me  ?  by  Jove  !  " 

And  he  with  many  assurances  guaranteed  to  stand  by  her, 
■while  she  bent  her  thin  fingers  trying  the  muscle  of  his  arm, 
and  reposed  upon  it  more.  There  was  delicacy  in  her 
dandyism.     She  was  a  graceful  cavalier. 

"  Sir  Julius,"  as  they  named  the  dandy's  attire,  was  fre- 
quently  called  for  on  his  evening  visits  to  Mrs.  Mount. 
When  he  beheld  Sir  Julius  he  thought  of  the  lady,  and  "vice 
versaw,"  as  Sir  Julius  was  fond  of  exclaiming. 


AN  ENCHANTEESS.  373 

Was  ever  hero  in  this  fashion  wooed  ? 

The  woman  now  and  then  would  peep  through  Sir  Julius. 
Or  she  would  sit,  and  talk,  and  altogether  forget  she  was 
impersonating  that  worthy  fop. 

She  never  uttered  an  idea  or  a  reflection,  but  Richard 
thought  her  the  cleverest  woman  he  had  ever  met. 

All  kinds  of  problematic  notions  beset  him.  She  was  cold 
as  ice,  she  hated  talk  about  love,  and  she  was  branded  bj 
the  world. 

A  rumour  spread  that  reached  Mrs.  Doria's  ears.  She 
pushed  to  Adrian  first.  The  wise  youth  believed  there  was 
Qothing  in  it.  She  sailed  full  down  upon  Richard.  "  Is  this 
true  ?  that  you  have  been  seen  going  publicly  about  with 
an  infamous  woman,  Richard  ?     Tell  me!  pray  relieve  me  !" 

Richard  knew  of  no  person  answering  to  his  aunt's  de- 
scription in  whose  company  he  could  have  been  seen. 

"  Tell  me,  I  say  !  Don't  quibble.  Do  you  know  any 
woman  of  bad  character  ?" 

The  acquaintance  of  a  lady  very  much  misjudged  and  ill- 
Qsed  by  the  world,  Richard  admitted  to. 

Urgent  grave  advice  Mrs.  Doria  tendered  her  nephew, 
both  from  the  nnoral  and  the  worldly  point  of  view,  mentally 
ejaculating  all  the  while  :  "  That  ridiculous  System  !  That 
disgraceful  marriage  !"  Sir  Austin  in  his  mountain  solitude 
was  furnished  with  serious  stuif  to  brood  over. 

The  rumour  came  to  Lady  Blandish.  She  likewise  lectured 
Richard,  and  with  her  he  condescended  to  argue.  But  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  instance  something  he  had  quite 
neglected.  "  Instead  of  her  doing  me  harm,  it's  I  that  will 
do  her  good." 

Lady  Blandish  shook  her  head  and  held  up  her  finger. 
"  This  person  must  be  very  clever  to  have  given  you  that 
delusion,  dear." 

"  She  is  clever.     And  the  world  treats  her  shamefully." 

"  She  complains  of  her  position  to  you  ?" 
"  Not  a  word.     But   I  will  stand   by  her.      She  has  no 
friend  but  me." 

"  My  poor  boy  !  has  she  made  you  think  that  ?  " 
"How  unjust  you  all  are  !"  cried  Richard. 
"  How  mad   and  wicked    is   the  man  who  can  let  him  be 
tempted  so  !"   thought  Lady  Blandish. 

He   would   prouDiince  no  promise  not  to  visit  her,  not  to 


874  TIIK  ORDEAL  OF  RirilARD  FEVEREL. 

address  her  piiblicl}'.  The  world  that  condemned  licr  and 
cast  her  out  was  no  better — worse  for  its  miserable  hypocrisy. 
Uo  knew  the  world  now,  the  j'oung  man  said. 

"Mj  child  !  the  world  may  be  very  bad.  I  am  not  going 
to  defend  it.  But  you  have  some  one  else  to  think  of.  Have 
you  forgotten  you  have  a  wife,  Richard  ?" 

"Ay!  you  all  speak  of  her  now.  Tliere's  my  aunt: 
'  Remember  you  have  a  wife  !'  Do  you  think  I  love  any  one 
but  Lucy  ?  poor  little  thing  !  Because  I  am  married  am  I 
to  give  up  the  society  of  women  ?" 

"  Of  women !" 

"  Isn't  she  a  woman?" 

"  Too  much  so !"    sighed  the  defender  of  her  sex. 

Adrian  became  more  emphatic  in  his  warnings.  Richard 
laughed  at  him.  The  wise  youth  sneered  at  Mrs.  Blount. 
The  hero  then  favoured  him  with  a  warning  equal  to  his 
own  in  emphasis,  and  surpassing  it  in  sincerity. 

"  We  won't  quarrel,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Adrian.  "  I'm  a 
man  of  peace.  Besides,  we  are  not  fairly  proportioned  for  a 
combat.  Ride  your  steed  to  virtue's  goal  !  All  I  say  is,  that 
I  think  he'll  upset  you,  and  it's  better  to  go  at  a  slow  pace 
and  in  companionship  with  the  children  of  the  sun.  You 
have  a  very  nice  little  woman  for  a  wife — well,  good-bye  !  " 

To  have  his  wife  and  the  world  thrown  at  his  face,  was 
unendurable  to  Richai  d ;  he  associated  them  somewhat  after 
the  manner  of  the  rick  and  the  marriage.  Charming  Sir 
Julius,  always  gay,  always  honest,  dispersed  his  black  moods. 

"  Why,  you're  taller,"  Richard  made  the  discovery. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Don't  you  remember  you  said  T  was 
Buch  a  little  thing  when  I  came  out  of  my  woman's  shell  ?" 

"  And  how  have  you  done  it  ?" 

"  Grown  to  please  you." 

"Now,  if  you  can  do  that,  you  can  do  anything." 

"  And  so  I  would  do  anything." 

"  You  would  ?" 

*•  Honour  !" 

"  Then  "...  his  project  recurred  to  him.  But  the  in- 
congruity  of  speaking  seriously  to  Sir  Julius  struck  him 
dumb. 

"  Then  what  ?"  asked  she. 

"  Then  you're  a  gallant  fellow." 

"  That  all  ?" 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  375 

"  Isn't  it  enough  ?" 

"  Not  quite.  You  were  going  to  say  sometliing.  I  saw  it 
in  your  eyes." 

"  You  saw  that  I  admired  you." 

"  Yes,  but  a  man  mustn't  admire  a  man." 

"  I  suppose  I  had  an  idea  you  were  a  woman.' 

"  What  !  when  I  had  the  heels  of  my  boots  raised  half  an 
inch,"  Sir  Julius  turned  one  heel,  and  volleyed  out  silver 
laughter. 

"  I  don't  come  much  above  your  shoulder  even  now,"  she 
said,  and  proceeded  to  measure  her  height  beside  him  with 
arch  up-glances. 

"  You  must  grow  more." 

"  'Fraid  I  can't,  Dick  !     Bootmakers  can't  do  it." 

"  I'll  show  you  how,"  and  he  lifted  Sir  Julius  lightly,  and 
bore  the  fair  gentleman  to  the  looking-glass,  holding  him. 
there  exactly  on  a  level  with  his  head.     "  Will  that  do  ?" 

"  Yes  !     Oh  but  I  can't  stay  here." 

"  Why  can't  you  ?" 

*' Why  can't  I  ?" 

Their  eye^s  met.     He  put  her  down  instantly. 

Sir  Julin«,  charming  as  he  was,  lost  his  vogue.  Seeing 
that,  the  wily  woman  resumed  her  shell.  The  memory  of 
Sir  Julius  breathing  about  her  still,  doubled  the  feminine 
attraction. 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  an  actress,"  she  said. 

Richard  told  her  he  found  all  natural  women  had  a  similar 
wish. 

"  Yes !  Ah  !  then  !  if  I  had  been  !"  sighed  Mrs.  Mount, 
gazing  on  the  pattern  of  the  carpet. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it. 

"  You  are  not  happy  as  you  are  ?" 

"  No." 

"  ]May  I  speak  to  you  ?" 
"Yes." 

Her  nearest  eye,  setting  a  dimple  of  her  cheek  in  motion, 
slid  to  the  corner  toward  her  oar,  as  she  sat  with  her  head 
sideways  to  him  listening.  When  he  had  gone,  she  said  to 
herself:  "Old  hypoci'itcs  talk  in  that  way;  but  I  never 
heard  of  a  young  man  doing  it,  and  not  making  love  at  the 
same  time." 

Their  next  meeting  displayed  her  quieter  :  subdued  as  ono 


376  TITK  or.DEAL  OF  RICnABD  FEVRREL. 

who   hiiil   been  sot   tlilnkiTiij^.       IIo    lauded    Ium-    fair  ln(\k3. 
"  Don't  make  mo  thrice  ashamed,"  she  potitioned. 

Hut  it  was  not  only  that  mood  with  her.  DaunlU'ss 
detianco  that  si)UMididly  befitted  her  paUant  outline  and  y^nvo 
a  wiKlness  to  her  bright  bold  eyes,  when  she  would  call  out: 
"  IIapi>y  ?  who  dares  say  I'm  not  happy?  D'  you  think  if 
the  world  whips  me  I'll  wince?  D'  you  think  I  care  for 
what  they  say  or  do  ?  Let  them  kill  me !  they  shall  never 
cret  one  cry  out  of  me !"  and  Hashing  on  the  young  man  as 
if  he  were  the  congregated  enemy,  add  :  "  There  !  now  you 
know  me !" — that  was  a  mood  that  well  became  her,  and 
helped  the  work.     She  ought  to  have  been  an  actress. 

"  This  must  not  go  on,"  said  Lady  Blandish  and  Mrs. 
Doria  in  unison.  A  common  object  brought  them  together. 
They  confined  their  talk  to  it,  and  did  not  disagree.  Mrs. 
Doria  engaged  to  go  down  to  the  baronet.  Both  ladies  knew 
it  was  a  dangerous,  likely  to  turn  out  a  disastrous,  exjiedi- 
tion.  They  agreed  to  it  because  it  vras  something  to  do, 
and  doing  anything  is  better  than  doing  nothing.  "  Do  it," 
said  the  wise  youth,  when  they  made  him  a  third,  "  do  it,  if 
yon  want  him  to  be  a  hermit  for  life.  You  will  bring  back 
nothing  but  his  dead  body,  ladies — a  Hellenic,  rather  than 
a  Roman,  triumph.  He  will  listen  to  you — he  will  accom- 
pany you  to  the  station — he  will  hand  you  into  the  carriage 
— and  when  you  point  to  his  seat  he  will  bow  profoundly, 
and  retire  into  his  congenial  mists." 

Adrian  spoke  their  thoughts.  They  fretted ;  they  re- 
lapsed. 

"  Speak  to  him,  you,  Adrian,"  said  Mrs.  Doria.  "  S])eak 
to  the  boy  solemnly.  It  Avould  be  almost  better  he  should 
go  back  to  that  little  thing  he  has  married." 

"  Almost  ?"  Lady  Blandish  opened  her  eyes.  "  I  have 
been  advising  it  for  the  last  month  and  more." 

"  A  choice  of  evils,"  said  Mrs.  Doria's  sour-sweet  face  and 
jhake  of  the  head. 

Each  lady  saw  a  point  of  dissension,  and  mutually  agreed, 
with  heroic  effort,  to  avoid  it  by  shutting  their  mouths. 
What  was  more,  they  preserved  the  peace  in  spite  of  Adrian's 
clever  artifices. 

"  Well,  I'll  talk  to  him  again,"  he  said.  "  I'll  try  to  get 
the  Engine  on  the  conventional  line." 

"  Command  him  !  "  exclaimed  ]\lrs.  Doria. 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  377 

"  Command  an  Engine,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Gentle  means  are,  I  think,  the  only  means  with  Richard," 
Baid  Lady  Blandish. 

"  Appeal  to  his  reason,"  Mrs.  Doria  iterated. 
"  The  reason  of  an  Engine,  ma'am  ?  " 

Throwing  banter  aside,  as  much  as  he  could,  Adrian  spoke 
to  Richard.  "  You  want  to  reform  this  woman.  Her  manner 
is  open — fair  and  free — the  traditional  characteristic.  We 
won't  stop  to  canvass  how  that  particular  honesty  of  deport- 
ment that  wins  your  appi'obation  has  been  gained.  In  her 
college  it  is  not  uncommon.  Girls,  you  know,  are  not  like 
boys.  At  a  certain  age  they  can't  be  quite  natural.  It's 
a  bad  sign  if  they  don't  blush,  and  fib,  and  affect  this  and 
that.  It  wears  off  when  they're  women.  But  a  woman  who 
speaks  like  a  man,  and  has  all  those  excellent  virtues  you 
admire — where  has  she  learnt  the  trick  ?  She  tells  you. 
You  don't  surely  approve  of  the  school  ?  Well,  what  is 
there  in  it,  then  ?  Reform  her,  of  course.  The  task  is 
worthy  of  your  energies.  But,  if  you  are  appointed  to  do 
it,  don't  do  it  publicly,  and  don't  attempt  it  just  now. 
May  I  ask  you  whether  your  wife  participates  in  this 
undertaking." 

Richard  walked  away  from  the  interrogation.  The  wise 
youth,  who  hated  long  unrelieved  speeches  and  had  healed 
his  conscience,  said  no  more. 

Dear  tender  Lucy  !  Poor  darling  !  Richard's  eyes  mois- 
tened. Her  letters  seemed  sadder  latterly.  Yet  she  never 
called  to  him  to  come,  or  he  would  have  gone.  His  heart 
leapt  up  to  her.  He  announced  to  Adrian  that  he  should 
wait  no  longer  for  his  father.     Adrian  placidly  nodded. 

The  enchantress  observed  that  her  knight  had  a  clouded 
brow  and  an  absent  voice. 

"  Richard — I  can't  call  you  Dick  now,  I  really  don't  know 
why  " — she  said,  "  I  want  to  beg  a  favour  of  you." 
"  Name  it.     I  can  still  call  you  Bella,  I  suppose  ?  " 
"  If  you  care  to.     What  I  want  to  say  is  this :  when  you 
meet  me  out — to  cut  it  short — please  not  to  recognize  me." 
"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ask  to  be  told  that  ?  " 
"Certainly  I  do." 

"  Then  look  :  I  won't  compromise  you.** 
**  I  see  no  harm,  Bella." 


378  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

"No,"  she  caressod  liis  lunul,  "  and  tlioro  is  none.  I  know 
that.  But,"  modest  eyelids  were  drooped,  "other  people 
do,"  strusxLrling  eyes  were  raised. 

""What  do  we  care  for  other  people  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  don't.  Not  that !  "  snapping  her  finger. 
**I  care  for  you,  though."  A  prolonged  look  followed  the 
declai-ation. 

"You're  foolish,  Bella." 
"  Not  quite  so  giddy — that's  all." 

He  did  not  combat  it  with  his  nsnal  impetuosity. 
Adi-ian's  abrupt  inquiry  had  sunk  in  his  mind,  as  the  wise 
youth  intended  it  should.  He  had  instinctively  refrained 
from  speaking  to  Lucy  of  this  lady.  But  what  a  noble  crea- 
ture the  woman  was ! 

So  they  met  in  the  Park;  Mrs.  Mount  whipped  past  him; 
and  secrecy  added  a  new  sense  to  their  intimacy. 

Adrian  was  gratified  at  the  result  px'oduced  by  his 
eloquence. 

Though  this  lady  never  expressed  an  idea,  Richard  was 
not  mistaken  in  her  cleverness.  She  could  make  evenings 
pass  gaily,  and  one  was  not  the  fellow  to  the  other.  She 
could  make  you  forget  she  was  a  woman,  and  then  bring  the 
fact  startlingly  home  to  you.  She  could  read  men  with  one 
quiver  of  her  half-closed  eye-lashes.  She  could  catch  the 
coming  mood  in  a  man,  and  fit  herself  to  it.  What  does  a 
woman  want  with  ideas,  who  can  do  thus  much  ?  Keenness 
of  perception,  conformity,  delicacy  of  handling,  these  be  all 
the  qualities  necessary  to  parasites. 

Love  would  have  scared  the  youth:  she  banished  it  from 
her  tongue.  It  may  also  have  been  true  that  it  sickened 
her.  She  played  on  his  higher  nature.  She  understood 
spontaneously  what  would  be  most  strange  and  taking  to 
him  in  a  woman.  Various  as  the  Serpent  of  old  Nile, 
she  acted  fallen  beauty,  humourous  indifference,  reckless 
daring,  arrogance  in  ruin.  And  acting  thus,  what  think 
you  r — She  did  it  so  well  because  she  was  growing  half  in 
earnest. 

"  Richard  !     I  am  not  what  I  was  since  I  knew  you.     You 
will  not  give  me  up  quite  ?  " 
"  Never,  Bella." 

*'  I  am  not  so  bad  as  I'm  painted!  ** 
"  You  ai'C  only  unfortunate." 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  379 

•*  Now  that  I  know  you  I  think  so,  and  yet  I  am  happier." 
She  told  him  her  history  when  this  soft  horizon  of  repent- 
ance seemed  to  throw  heaven's  twilight  across  it.    A  woman's 
history,  you  know  :  certain  chapters  expunged.     It  was  dark 
enough  to  Richard. 

"  Did  you  love  the  man  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  say  you  love 
no  one  now." 

"  Did  I  love  him  ?  He  was  a  nobleman  and  I  a  trades- 
man's daughter.  No.  I  did  not  love  him.  I  have  lived  to 
learn  it.  And  now  I  should  hate  him,  if  I  did  not  despise 
him." 

"  Can  you  be  deceived  in  love  ?  "  said  Richard,  more  to 
himself  than  to  her. 

"  Yes.  When  we're  young  we  can  be  very  easily  deceived. 
If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love,  we  discover  it  after  we  have 
tossed  about  and  roughed  it.  Then  we  find  the  man,  or  the 
woman,  that  suits  us  : — and  then  it's  too  late  !  we  can't  have 
him." 

"  Singular  ! "  murmured  Richard,  "  she  says  just  what  my 
father  said." 

He  spoke  aloud :  "  I  could  forgive  you  if  you  had  loved 
him." 

"  Don't  be  harsh,  grave  judge  !  How  is  a  girl  to  distin- 
guish ?  " 

"  You  had  some  affection  for  him  ?     He  was  the  first  ?  " 
She  chose  to  admit  that.     "  Yes.     And  the  first  who  talks 
of  love  to  a  girl  must  be  a  fool  if  he  doesn't  blind  her." 
"  That  makes  what  is  called  first  love  nonsense." 
"  Isn't  it  ?  " 

He  repelled  the  insinuation.  "  Because  I  know  it  is  not, 
Bella." 

Nevertheless  she  had  opened  a  wider  view  of  the  world  to 
him,  and  a  colder.  He  thought  poorly  of  girls.  A  woman — 
a  sensible,  brave,  beautiful  woman  seemed,  on  comparison 
infinitely  nobler  than  those  weak  creatures. 

She  was  best  in  her  character  of  lovely  rebel  accusing  foul 
injustice.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  You  tell  me  to  be  different. 
How  can  I  ?  What  am  I  to  do?  Will  virtuous  people  let 
me  eai-n  my  bread  ?  I  could  not  get  a  housemaid's  place  ! 
They  wouldn't  have  me — I  sec  their  noses  smelling!  Yes: 
I  can  go  to  the  hos})ital  and  sing  behind  a  screen  !  Do  yon 
expect  me  to  bury  myself  alive  ?     Why,  man,  I  have  blood; 


380  TIIR  OnOKAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

I  can't  become  a  stone.  You  say  I  am  honest,  and  I  will  ha. 
Then  let  me  tell  you  that  I  have  been  used  to  luxuries,  and  1 
can't  do  witlmut  them.  I  might  have  married  men — lota 
would  have  had  mo.  But  who  marries  one  like  me  but  a  fool  ? 
and  I  could  not  mari-y  a  fool.  The  man  I  marry  I  must 
respect.  He  could  not  respect  me — I  should  know  him  to  bo 
a  fool,  and  I  should  be  worse  off  than  I  am  now.  As  I  am 
now  they  may  look  as  pious  as  they  like — I  laugh  ab 
them !  " 

And  so  forth  :  direr  things.  Imputations  upon  wives : 
horrible  exultation  at  the  universal  peccancy  of  husbands. 
This  lovely  outcast  almost  made  him  think  she  had  the  right 
on  her  side,  so  keenly  her  Parthian  arrows  pierced  the  holy 
centres  of  society,  and  exposed  its  rottenness. 

Mrs.  Mount's  house  was  discreetly  conducted :  nothing 
ever  occurred  to  shock  him  there.  The  young  man  would 
ask  himself  where  the  difference  was  between  her  and  tho 
women  of  society  ?  How  base,  too,  was  the  army  of  banded 
hypocrites !  He  was  ready  to  declare  war  against  them  on 
her  behalf.  His  casus  belli,  accurately  worded,  would  have 
read  curiously.  Because  the  world  refused  to  lure  the  lady 
to  virtue  with  the  offer  of  a  housemaid's  place,  our  knight 
threw  down  his  challenge.  But  the  lady  had  scornfully 
rebutted  this  prospect  of  a  return  to  chastity.  Then  the 
form  of  the  challenge  must  be :  Because  the  world  declineil 
to  support  the  lady  in  luxury  for  nothing!  But  what  did 
that  mean  ?  In  other  words  :  she  was  to  receive  the  devil's 
wages  without  rendering  him  her  services.  Such  an  iir- 
rangement  appears  hardly  fair  on  the  world  or  on  the  devil. 
Heroes  will  have  to  conquer  both  before  they  will  get  them 
to  subscribe  to  it. 

Heroes,  however,  are  not  in  the  habit  of  wording  their 
declarations  of  war  at  all.  Lance  in  rest  they  challenge  nnd 
they  charge.  Like  women  they  trust  to  instinct,  and  graft 
on  it  the  muscle  of  men.  Wide  fly  the  leisurely-remonstrat- 
ing hosts :  institutions  are  scattered,  they  know  not  where- 
fore, heads  are  bi-oken  that  have,  not  the  balm  of  a  reason 
why.  'Tis  instinet  strikes!  Surely  there  is  something 
divine  in  instinet. 

Still,  war  declared,  where  were  these  hosts  ?  The  hero 
could  not  chaige  down  on  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  a  ball- 
room, and  spoil  the  quadrille.     He  had  suUicieut  leticeuce  to 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  381 

avoid  sounding  his  cliallenge  in  the  Law  Courts  ;  nor  conld 
he  well  go  into  the  Houses  of  Parliament  with  a  trumpet, 
though  to  come  to  a  tussle  with  the  nation's  direct  repre- 
Bentatives  did  seem  the  likelier  method.  It  was  likewise 
out  of  the  question  that  he  should  enter  every  house  and 
shop,  and  battle  with  its  master  in  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Mount. 
Where,  then,  was  his  enemy.  Everybody  was  his  enemy, 
and  everybody  was  nowhere  !  Shall  he  convoke  multitudes 
on  Wimbledon  Common  ?  Blue  Policemen,  and  a  distant 
dread  of  ridicule,  bar  all  his  projects.  Alas  for  the  hero  in 
our  day  ! 

Nothing  teaches  a  strong  arm  its  impotence  so  much  as 
knocking  at  empty  air. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  this  poor  woman  ?"  cried  Richard, 
after  fighting  his  phantom  enemy  till  he  was  worn  out. 

"0  Rip!  old  Rip!"  he  addressed  his  friend,  "  I'm  dis- 
tracted. I  wish  I  was  dead  !  What  good  am  I  for  ?  Miser- 
able !  selfish  I  What  have  I  done  but  make  every  soul  I 
know  wretched  about  me  ?  I  follow  my  own  inclinations — 
I  make  people  help  me  by  lying  as  hard  as  they  can — and 
I'm  a  liar.  And  when  I've  got  it  I'm  ashamed  of  myself. 
And  now  when  I  do  see  something  unselfish  for  me  to  do,  I 
pome  upon  grins — I  don't  know  whei'e  to  turn  — how  to  act 
—  and  I  laugh  at  myself  like  a  devil  !" 

It  was  only  friend  Ripton's  ear  that  was  required,  so  his 
words  went  for  little  :  but  he  did  say  he  thought  there  was 
small  matter  to  be  ashamed  of  in  winning  and  wearing  the 
Beauty  of  Earth.  Richard  added  his  customary  comment 
of  "  Poor  little  thing  I" 

He  fought  his  duello  with  empty  air  till  he  was  exhausted. 
A  last  letter  written  to  his  father  procured  him  no  reply. 
Then,  said  he,  I  have  tried  my  utmost.  I  have  tried  to 
be  dutiful — my  father  won't  listen  to  me.  One  thing  I  can 
do— I  can  go  down  to  my  dear  girl,  and  make  her  happy, 
and  save  her  at  least  from  some  of  the  consequences  of  my 
rashness. 

"  There's  nothing  better  for  mo  1"  ho  groaned.  His  great 
ambition  must  be  covered  by  a  house-top  :  he  and  the  cat 
must  warm  themselves  on  the  .domestic  hearth  !  Tlic  hero 
was  not  aware  that  his  heart  moved  him  to  this.  His  heart 
was  not  now  in  open  communion  with  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Mount  heard  that  her  friend   was  going — would  go 


382  THE  ORPKAL  OF  RTCnATlD  FEVEREL. 

8I10  know  he  was  giiiiiLJC  ^^^  ^i'-''  wife.  Far  from  discouraging 
liiin,  she  said  nobly:  "  Go — I  believe  I  have  kept  you.  Let 
us  have  an  evening  together,  and  then  go  :  for  good  if  you 
like.  If  not,  then  to  meet  again  another  time.  Forget  me. 
I  sha'n't  forget  you.  Your  the  best  fellow  I  ever  knew, 
Riehard.  You  are,  on  my  honour!  I  swear  I  would  nob 
ste]>  in  between  you  and  your  wife  to  cause  either  of  you  a 
moment's  unliappiness.  When  I  can  be  another  woman  I 
will,  and  I  shall  think  of  you  then." 

Lady  Blandish  heard  from  Adrian  that  Richard  was  posi- 
tively going  to  his  wife.  The  wise  youth  modestly  veilc-d 
his  own  merit  in  bringing  it  about  by  saying  :  "  I  couldn't 
see  that  poor  little  woman  left  alone  down  there  any 
longer.'* 

"  Well !  Yes !"  said  Mrs.  Doria,  to  whom  the  modest 
speech  was  repeated,  "  I  suppose,  poor  boy,  it's  the  best  ho 
can  do  now." 

Richard  bade  them  adieu,  and  went  to  spend  his  last 
evening  with  Mrs.  Mount. 

The  enchantress  received  him  in  state. 

"  Do  you  know  this  dress  ?  No  ?  It's  the  dress  I  wore 
when  I  first  met  you — not  when  I  first  saw  you.  I  think  I 
remarked  you,  sii-,  before  you  deigned  to  cast  an  eye  upon 
humble  me.  When  we  first  met  we  drank  champagne 
together,  and  I  intend  to  celebrate  our  parting  in  the  same 
liijuor.     Will  you  liquor  with  me,  old  boy  ?" 

She  was  gay.  She  revived  Sir  Julius  occasionally.  He, 
dispirited,  left  the  talking  all  to  her. 

Mrs.  Mount  kept  a  footman.  At  a  late  hour  the  man  of 
calves  dressed  the  table  for  supper.  It  was  a  point  of 
honour  for  Richard  to  sit  down  to  it  and  try  to  eat.  Drink- 
ing, thanks  to  the  kindly  mother  nature,  who  lov^es  to  see 
her  chilJren  made  fools  of,  is  always  an  easier  matter.  The 
footman  was  diligent:  the  champagne  corks  feebly  recalled 
the  file-firing  at  Richmond. 

"  We'll  drink  to  what  we  might  have  been,  Dick,"  said 
the  enchantress. 

Oh,  the  glorious  wreck  she  looked. 

His  heart  choked  as  he  g^lfjcd  the  buzzing  wine. 

"  What !  down,  my  boy  ?"  she  cried.  "  They  shall  never 
see  me  hoist  sijjnals  of  distress.  We  must  all  die,  and  the 
secret  of  the  thing  is  to  die  game,  by  Jove  !     Did  you   ever 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  383 

hoar  of  Laura  Fenn  ?  a  superb  girl !  handsomer  fhan  your 
luimble  servant — if  you'll  believe  it — a  'Miss'  in  the 
bargain,  and  as  a  consequence,  I  suppose,  a  much  greater 
rake.  She  was  in  the  hunting-field.  Her  horse  threw  her, 
and  she  fell  plump  on  a  stake.  It  went  into  her  left  breast. 
All  the  fellows  crowded  round  her,  and  one  young  man,  who 
was  in  love  with  her — he  sits  in  the  House  of  Peers  now — • 
we  used  to  call  him  '  Duck '  because  he  was  such  a  deai^ — > 
he  dropped  from  his  horse  to  his  knees  :  '  Laura  !  Laura ! 
my  darling!  speak  a  word  to  me  ! — the  last!  '  She  turned 
over  all  white  and  bloody  !  'I — I  shan't  be  in  at  the  death  !* 
and  gave  up  the  ghost !  Wasn't  that  dying  game  ?  Here's 
to  the  example  of  Laura  Fenn  !  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 
See  !  it  makes  a  man  turn  pale  to  hear  how  a  woman  can 
die.     Fill  the  glasses,  John.     Why,  you're  as  bad  !  " 

"  It's  give  me  a  turn,  my  lady,"  pleaded  John,  and  the 
man's  hand  was  unsteady  as  he  poured  out  the  wine. 

"  You  ought  not  to  listen.     Go,  and  drink  some  brandy," 

John  footman  went  from  the  room. 

"  My  brave  Dick  !  Richard  !  what  a  face  you've  got  I  " 

He  showed  a  deep  frown  on  a  colourless  face. 

"  Can't  you  bear  to  hear  of  blood  ?  You  know,  it  was  only 
one  naughty  woman  out  of  the  world.  The  clergyman  of 
the  parish  didn't  refuse  to  give  her  decent  burial.  We  are 
Christians  !      Hurrah  !  " 

She  cheered,  and  laughed.  A  lurid  splendour  glanced 
about  her  like  lights  from  the  pit. 

"  Pledge  me,  Dick  !  Drink,  and  recover  yourself.  Who 
minds  ?  We  must  all  die — the  good  and  the  bad.  Ashes  to 
ashes — dust  to  dust — and  wine  for  living  lips  !  That's 
poetry — almost.  Sentiment :  '  May  we  never  say  die  till 
we've  drunk  our  fill  !  '  Not  bad — eh  ?  A  little  vulgar,  per- 
haps, by  Jove  1     Do  you  think  mc  horrid  ?  " 

"  Wlicre's  the  wine  ?  "  Richard  shouted.  He  drank  a 
couple  of  glasses  in  success'on,  and  stared  about.  Was  he  in 
hell,  with  a  lost  soul  raving  to  him  ? 

"  Nobly  spoken  !  and  nubly  acted  upon,  my  brave  Dick  ! 
Now  we'll  be  companions.  '  She  wished  that  heaven  had 
made  her  such  a  man.'  Ah,  Dick !  Dick !  too  lato !  toff 
late  !  " 

Softly  fell  her  voice.     Her  eyes  threw  slanting  beams. 

"  Do  you  see  thia  ?  " 


384  TllK  OUDKAI,  OF  RICDAKD  FEVEREL. 

iSho  pointed  to  a  symbolic  golden  anclior  studded  with 
^'tMus  and  coiled  with  a  rope  of  hair  in  her  bosom.  It  was  a 
gift  of  his. 

"Do  you  know  when  I  stole  the  lock?  Foolish  Dickl 
you  <:^ave  me  an  anchor  without  a  rope.     Come  and  see." 

She  rose  from  the  table,  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa. 

"  Don't  you  recognize  your  own  hair  !  I  should  know  a 
thread  of  mine  among  a  million." 

Something  of  the  strength  of  Samson  went  out  of  him  as 
he  inspected  his  hair  on  the  bosom  of  Delilah. 

"  And  you  knew  nothing  of  it !  You  hardly  know  it  now 
you  see  it !  What  couldn't  a  woman  steal  from  you  ?  But 
you're  not  vain,  and  that's  a  protection.  You're  a  miracle, 
Dick  :  a  man  that's  not  vain  !  Sit  here."  She  curled  up 
her  feet  to  give  him  place  on  the  sofa.  "  Now  let  us  talk 
like  friends  that  part  to  meet  no  more.  You  found  a  ship 
with  fever  on  board,  and  you  weren't  afraid  to  come  along- 
side and  keep  her  company.  The  fever  isn't  catching,  you 
see.  Let  us  mingle  our  teai-s  together.  Ha  !  ha  !  a  man 
said  that  once  to  me.  The  hypocrite  wanted  to  catch  the 
fever,  but  he  was  too  old.     How  old  are  you,  Dick  ?  " 

Richard  pushed  a  few  months  forward. 

"  Twenty-one  ?  You  just  look  it,  you  blooming  boy.  Now 
tell  me  my  age,  Adonis  ! — Twenty — what  ?  " 

Richard  had  given  the  lady  tw'cnty-five  years. 

She  laughed  violently.  "  You  don't  pay  compliments, 
Dick.  Best  to  be  honest ;  Guess  again.  You  don't  like 
to  ?  Not  twenty-five,  or  twenty-four,  or  twenty-three,  or — 
Bee  how  he  begins  to  stare  ! — twenty-two.  Just  twenty-one, 
my  dear.  I  think  my  birthday's  somewhere  in  next  month. 
Why,  look  at  me,  close — closer.     Have  I  a  wrinkle  ?  " 

"  And  wlien,  in  heaven's  name  !  "...  he  stopped  short. 

"  I  understand  you.  When  did  I  commence  for  to  live  P 
At  the  ripe  age  of  sixteen  I  saw  a  nobleman  in  despair 
because  of  my  beauty.  He  vowed  he'd  die.  I  didn't  want 
him  to  do  that.  So  to  save  the  poor  man  for  liis  family,  I 
nm  away  with  him,  and  I  dare  say  they  didn't  appreciate 
the  sacrifice,  and  he  soon  forgot  to,  if  he  ever  did.  It's  the 
way  of  the  world  !  " 

"  Whei-e's  the  wine  ? "  cried  Richard.  He  seized  some 
dead  champagne,  emjjtied  the  bottle  into  a  tumbler,  and 
drank  it  oli. 


AN  EXCHANTRESS.  S85 

Jolm  footman  entered  to  clear  the  table,  and  thej  were 
left  without  further  intei-ruption. 

"  Bella !  Bella  !  "  Richard  uttered  in  a  deep  sad  voice,  as 
he  walked  the  room. 

She  leaned  on  her  arm,  her  hair  crushed  against  a  red- 
dened cheek,  her  eyes  half-shut  and  di'camy. 

"  Bella !  "  he  dropped  beside  her.     "  You  are  unhappy." 
She  blinked  and  yawned,  as  one  who  is  awaked  suddenly. 
"  I  think  you  spoke,"  said  she. 

"You  are  unhappy,  Bella.  You  can't  conceal  it.  Your 
laugh  sounds  like  madness.  You  must  be  unhappy.  So 
young,  too  !     Only  twenty-one  !  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?     Who  cai-es  for  me  ?  " 
The  mighty  pity  falling  from  his  eyes  took  in  her  whole 
shape.     She  did  not  mistake  it  for  tenderness,  as  another 
would  have  done. 

"  Who  cares  for  you,  Bella  ?  T  do.  What  makes  my 
misery  now,  but  to  see  you  there,  and  know  of  no  way  of 
helping  you  ?  Father  of  mercy  !  it  seems  too  much  to  have 
to  stand  by  powerless  while  such  a  ruin  is  going  on !  " 

■  Her  hand  was   shaken  in  his  by  the  passion  of  torment 
with  which  his  frame  quaked. 

Involuntarily  a  tear  started  between  her  eyelids.  She 
glanced  up  at  him  quickly,  then  looked  down,  drew  her  hand 
from  his,  and  smoothed  it,  eyeing  it. 
"  Bella  !  you  have  a  father  alive  !  " 
"  A  linendraper,  dear.  He  wears  a  white  neck-cloth." 
This  article  of  apparel  instantaneously  changed  the  tone 
of  the  conversation,  for  he,  rising  abi-uptly,  nearly  squashetl 
the  lady's  lap-dog,  whose  squeaks  and  howls  were  piteous, 
and  demanded  the  most  fervent  caresses  of  its  mistress.  It 
was :  "  Oh,  my  poor  ^^et  Mumpsy,  and  he  didn't  like  a  nastv 
great  big  ngly  heavy  foot  on  his  poor  soft  silicy — mum — 
mum — back,  he  didn't,  and  he  soodn't  that  he — mum — mum 
— soodn't ;  and  he  cried  out  and  knew  the  place  to  come  to, 
and  was  oh  so  sorry  for  what  had  happened  to  him — mum 
— mum — mum — and  now  he  was  going  to  be  made  happy, 
his  mistress  make  him  happy — mum — mum — mum  — 
inoo-o-o-o." 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Richard  SJwagely,  from  the  othei-  end  of  the 
room,  "  you  care  for  the  haj)})inuss  of  your  dog." 

2c 


386  Tin-:  ORnr:AL  of  riciiaup  ff-vkhkl. 

"  A  course  so  does,"  Mnmpsy  was  simpoiingly  assured  in 
tlie  tliick  of  liis  silUy  flanks. 

Kicharil  looked  for  his  hat.  Mumpsy  was  depo.sited  on 
the  sofa  in  a  twinklincf. 

"  Now,"  said  the  lady,  "  you  must  come  and  beg  Mumpsy'a 
pardon  whether  you  meant  to  do  it  or  no,  because  little 
dogLries  can't  tell  that — how  should  they  ?  And  thei-e's  poor 
Mumj>sy  thinking  you're  a  great  terrible  rival  that  tries  to 
squash  him  all  flat  to  nothing,  on  purpose,  pretending  you 
didn't  see ;  and  he's  trembling,  poor  dear  wee  pet!  And  I 
may  love  my  dog,  sir,  if  I  like ;  and  I  do ;  and  I  won't  have 
him  ill-treated,  for  he's  never  been  jealous  of  you,  and  he  is 
a  darling,  ten  times  truer  than  men,  and  I  love  him  fifty 
times  better.     So  come  to  him  with  me." 

First  a  smile  changed  Richard's  face;  then  laughing  a 
melancholy  laugh,  he  surrendered  to  her  humour,  and  went 
through  the  form  of  begging  ^Nlumpsy's  pardon. 

"  The  dear  dog !  I  do  believe  he  saw  we  were  getting 
dull,"  said  she. 

"  And  immolated  himself  intentionally  ?    Noble  animal  ! " 

"  Well,  Ave'll  act  as  if  we  thought  so.  Let  us  be  gay, 
Richard,  and  not  part  like  ancient  fogies.  Where's  your 
fun  ?  You  can  rattle  ;  why  don't  you  ?  You  haven't  seen 
me  in  one  of  my  characters — not  Sir  Julius :  wait  a  couple 
of  minutes."     She  ran  out. 

A  white  visage  reappeared  behind  a  spring  of  flame.  Her 
black  hair  was  scattered  over  her  shoulders  and  fell  half 
across  her  brows.  She  moved  slowly,  and  came  up  to  him, 
fastening  weird  eyes  on  him,  pointing  a  finger  at  the  region 
of  witches.  Sepulchral  cadences  accompanied  the  repre- 
sentation. He  did  not  listen,  for  he  was  thinking  what  a 
deadly  charming  and  exquisitely  horiid  witch  she  was. 
Something  in  the  w-ay  her  underlids  worked  seemed  tii 
remind  him  of  a  forgotten  picture ;  but  a  veil  hung  on  the 
picture.  There  could  be  no  analogy,  for  this  was  beautiful 
and  devilish,  and  that,  if  he  remembered  i-ightly,  had  the 
beauty  of  seraphs. 

His  reflections  and  her  performance  were  stayed  by  a 
shriek.  The  spirits  of  wine  had  run  over  the  plate  she  held 
to  the  floor.  She  had  the  coolness  to  put  the  plate  down  on 
the  table,  while  he  stamped  out  the  flame  on  the  carpet. 
Again  she  shrieked  :  she  thought  she  w^as  on  fire.      JIc  fell  - 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  387 

on  Ill's  Icnees  and  clasped  her  skirts  all  round,  drawing'  hia 
arms  down  them  several  times. 

Still  kneeling,  he  looked  up,  and  asked,  "  Do  you  feel  safe 
now  ?" 

She  bent  her  face  glaring  down  till  the  ends  of  her  haii' 
touched  his  cheek. 

Said  she,  "  Do  you  ?" 

Was  she  a  witch  verily  ?  There  was  sorcery  in  her  breath; 
sorcery  in  her  hair :  the  ends  of  it  stung  him  like  little 
snakes. 

"  How  do  I  do  it,  Dick  ?"     She  flung  back  laughing. 

"  Like  you  do  everything,  Bella,"  he  said,  and  took  a 
breath. 

"  There !  I  won't  be  a  witch ;  I  won't  be  a  witch  :  they 
may  burn  me  to  a  cinder,  but  I  won't  be  a  witch  !" 

She  sang,  throwing  her  hair  about,  and  stamping  her  feet. 

"I  suppose  I  look  a  figure.     I  must  go  and  tidy  myself." 

"  No,  don't  change.  I  like  to  see  you  so."  He  gazed  at 
her  with  a  mixture  of  wonder  and  admiration.  "  I  can't 
think  you  the  same  person — not  even  when  you  laugh." 

"  Richard,"  her  tone  was  serious,  "  you  were  going  to  speak 
to  me  of  my  parents." 

"  How  wild  and  awful  you  looked,  Bella ! " 

"My  father,  Richard,  was  a  very  respectable  man." 

"  Bella,  you'll  haunt  me  like  a  ghost." 

•'My  mother  died  in  my  infancy,  Richard." 

"  Don't  put  up  your  hair,  Bella." 

*'  I  was  an  only  child  !" 

Her  head  shook  sorrowfully  at  the  glistening  fire-irons. 
He  followed  the  abstracted  intentness  of  her  look,  and  came 
upon  her  words. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  speak  of  your  father,  Bella.     Speak  of  him." 

"  Sliall  I  haunt  you,  and  come  to  your  bedside,  and  cry, 
* 'Tin  time!'?" 

"Dear  Bella!  if  you  will  tell  me  whore  he  lives,  I  will  go 
to  him.  He  shall  receive  you.  He  shall  not  refuse — he 
shall  forgive  you." 

"If  I  haunt  you,  you  can't  forget  me,  Richard." 

"  Let  me  go  to  your  father,  Bella — let  me  go  to  him  to- 
morrow. I'll  give  you  my  time.  It's  all  I  can  give.  0 
Bella  !  let  me  save  you." 

"  So  you   like  me  best  dishevelled,  do  you,  you  naughty 

2c2 


r88  Till".  OKPFAT.  OF  niCIlAUP  FEVF.UEL. 

boy!  ITa !  ha  !"  ami  away  she  burst,  from  him,  and  up  flow 
her  hair,  as  she  danced  across  the  room,  and  fell  at  lull 
lensfth  on  the  sofa. 

lie  felt  fridfly  :  bewitched. 

"We'll  talk  of  everyday  things,  Dick,"  she  called  to  him 
fi-om  the  sofa.  "  It's  our  last  evening.  Our  last  ?  Heigho! 
It  makes  me  sentimental.  How's  that  Mr.  Ripson,  Pipson, 
NipsoQ  ? — it's  not  complimentary,  but  I  can't  remember 
names  of  that  sort.  Why  do  you  have  friends  of  that  sort? 
He's  not  a  gentleman.  Better  is  he  ?  Well,  he's  rather  too 
insiprnificant  for  me.  Why  do  you  sit  off  there  ?  Come  to 
me  instantly.  There — I'll  sit  up,  and  be  projier,  and  you'll 
have  plenty  of  room.     Talk,  Dick  !  " 

He  was  i-eflecting  on  the  fact  that  her  eyes  were  brown. 
Thev  had  a  haughty  sparkle  when  she  pleased,  and  when 
she  pleased  a  soft  languor  circled  them.  Excitement 
had  dyed  her  cheeks  deep  red.  He  Avas  a  youth,  and  she 
an  enchantress.  He  a  hero ;  she  a  female  will-o'-the- 
wisp. 

The  eyes  were  languid  now,  set  in  rosy  colour. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  yet,  Richard  ?  not  yet  ?" 

He  had  no  thought  of  departing. 

"  It's  our  last  night — I  suppose  it's  our  last  hour  together 
in  this  world — and  I  don't  want  to  meet  you  in  the  next,  for 
]»oor  Dick  will  have  to  come  to  such  a  very,  very  disagree- 
able jAsLce  to  make  the  visit." 

He  grasped  her  hand  at  this. 

"  Yes,  he  will !  too  true  !  can't  be  helped  :  They  say  I'm 
handsome." 

"  You're  lovely,  Bella." 

She  drank  in  his  homage. 

"  Well,  we'll  admit  it.  His  Highness  below  likes  lovely 
women,  I  hear  say.  A  gentlemen  of  taste  !  Yon  don't  know 
ail  my  accomplishments  3-et,  Richard." 

"  I  sha'n't  be  astoni.^hed  at  anything  new,  Bella." 

*'  Then  hear,  and  wonder."  Her  roice  trolled  out  some 
lively  roulades.  "  Don't  you  think  he'll  make  me  his  prima 
donna  below  ?  It's  nonsense  to  tell  me  theie's  no  singing 
the]*e.  And  the  atmosphere  will  be  favourable  to  the  voice. 
No  damp,  you  know.  You  saw  the  piano — why  didn't  you 
ask  me  to  sing  before  ?  I  can  sing  Italian.*  I  had  a  master 
— wlio  made  love  to  me.       I   forgave  him   because  of  the 


AN  ENCHANTRESS.  389 

music-Rtool — men    can't   help     it    on    a    music-stool,   poor 
dears !  " 

She  went  to  the  piano,  struck  the  notes,  and  sang — 

"  *  My  heart,  my  heart — I  think  't\\.,l  break.' 

"  Because  I'm  such  a  rake.  I  don't  know  any  other 
reason.  No  ;  I  hate  sentimental  songs.  Won't  sing  that. 
Ta-tiddy-tiddy-iddy — a  .  .  .  e !  How  ridiculous  tliose 
women  were,  coming  home  from  Richmond  ! 

•• '  Once  the  sweet  romance  of  story 

Clad  thy  moving  form  with  grace ; 
Once  the  world  and  all  its  glory 

Was  but  framework  to  thy  face. 
Ah,  too  fair  ! — what  I  remember, 

ISIight  my  soul  recall — but  no  I 
To  the  winds  this  wretched  ember 

Of  a  fire  that  falls  so  low  ! ' 

"  Hum  !  don't  much  like  that.  Tum-te-tum-tum — accanto 
al  fuooo — heigho  !  I  don't  want  to  show  off,  Dick — or  to 
break  down — so  I  won't  try  that. 

•* '  Oil  !  hnt  for  thee,  Oh  1  but  for  thee, 
I  might  have  been  a  happy  wife, 
And  nursed  a  baby  on  my  knee, 
And  never  blushed  to  give  it  life.' 

"  I  used  to  sing  that  when  I  was  a  girl,  sweet  Richard, 
and  didn't  know  at  all,  at  all,  what  it  meant.  Mustn't  sing 
that  sort  of  song  in  company.  We're  oh  !  so  proper — even 
we ! 

"  *  If  I  had  a  husband,  what  think  you  I'd  do  1 

I'd  make  it  my  business  to  keep  him  a  lover ; 
For  whcu  a  j'ouiig  gentleman  ceases  to  woo, 
Some  other  amusement  he'll  quickly  discover.' 

"  For  such  are  young  gentlemen  made  of — made  of:  such 
ftrc  young  genilcmon  made  of  !  " 

After  this  trifling  she  sang  a  Spanish  ballad  sweetly.  He 
was  in  the  mood  when  the  imagination  intensely  vivifies 
fvery thing.  Mere  suggestions  of  music  sulUced.  The  lady 
in  the  ballad  had  been  wronged.  Lo !  it  was  the  lady 
before  him ;  and  soft  horns  blew ;  he  smelt  the  languid 
night-flowers;  he  saw  the  stars  crowd  largo  and  close  above 


3nn  TiiK  oi:di:at,  of  tupiiaimi  FKvr.nEL. 

tlio  nrid  plnin  :  iliis  lady  Icatiiiig  at  licr  Aviiidow  dcRolato, 
pom-iiiL,''  out  lier  aliaiidoiR'd  lu-art. 

TI(M-(H>s  kiu)\v  liltlo  what  tlicy  owe  to  (diaTiijiaunc. 

The  hidy  wandered  to  Vciiiee.  Thitlicr  lie  t'oUowed  lier  at 
a  leap.  In  Venice  she  was  not  happy.  lie  was  pi"ej)ared 
for  the  misery  of  any  woman  anywhere.  But,  oh  !  to  be 
with  her!  To  glide  with  phantom-motion  throni>-h  throbbing 
streets  ;  past  houses  muffled  in  shadow  and  gloomy  legends  ; 
under  storied  bridges  ;  past  palaces  charged  with  full  life  in 
dead  quietness ;  past  grand  old  towers,  colossal  sijuai-es, 
gleaming  quays,  and  oiit,  and  on  Avith  her,  on  into  the  silver 
infinity  shaking  over  seas  ! 

Was  it  the  champagne  ?  the  music  ?  or  the  poetry  ? 
Something  of  the  two  former,  perhaps  :  but  most  the 
enchantress  playing  upon  him.  How  many  instruments 
cannot  clever  women  i)lay  upon  at  the  same  moment !  Ar,d 
this  enchantress  was  not  too  clover,  or  he  might  have  felt 
her  touch.  She  was  no  longer  absolutely  bent  on  winning 
him,  or  he  might  have  seen  a  manoeuvre.  She  liked  him — 
liked  none  better.  She  wished  him  well.  Her  pique  was 
satisfied.  Still  he  Avas  handsome,  and  he  was  going.  What 
she  liked  him  for,  she  rather — very  slightly — wished  to  do 
away  with,  or  see  if  it  could  be  done  away  with  :  just  as  one 
wishes  to  catch  a  pretty  butterfly,  without  hurting  its  pat- 
terned wings.  No  harm  intended  to  the  innocent  insect, 
only  one  wants  to  inspect  it  thoroughly,  and  enjoy  the  mar- 
vel of  it,  in  one's  tender  possession,  and  have  the  felicity  of 
thinking  one  could  crush  it,  if  one  would. 

He  knew  her  what  she  was,  this  lady.  In  Seville,  or  in 
Venice,  the  spot  was  on  her.  Sailing  the  pathways  of  the 
moon  it  was  not  celestial  light  that  illumined  her  beauty. 
Her  sin  was  there :  but  in  dreaming  to  save,  he  was  soft  to 
her  sin — drowned  it  in  deep  mournfulness. 

Silence,  and  the  rustle  of  her  di'bss,  aw^oke  him  from  his 
musing.     She  swam  wave-like  to  the  sofa.     She  was  at  his  feet. 

"  I  have  been  light  and  careless  to-night,  Richard.  Of 
course  I  meant  it.  I  must  be  happy  with  my  best  friend 
going  to  leave  me." 

Those  witch  underlids  were  working  brightly. 

"  You  will  not  forget  me  ?  and  I  shall  try  .  .  .  try  .  .  ." 

Her  lips  twitched.  She  thought  liim  such  a  very  hand. 
Bome  fellow. 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  3J>1 

"  If  I  change — if  I  can  change  .  .  .  Oh !  if  you  could 
know  what  a  net  I'm  in,  Richard !" 

Now  at  those  words,  as  he  looked  down  on  her  haggard 
loveliness,  not  divine  sorrow  but  a  devouring  jealousy  sprang 
like  fire  in  his  breast,  and  set  him  rocking  with  horrid  pain. 
He  bent  closer  to  her  pale  beseeching  face.  Her  eyes  still 
drew  him  down. 

"  Bella  !     No  !  no  !  promise  me  !  swear  it !" 

"  Lost,  Richard  !  lost  for  ever  !  give  me  up  !" 

He  cried  :  "  I  never  will  !"  and  strained  her  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  passionately  on  the  lips. 

She  was  not  acting  now  as  she  sidled  and  slunk  her  half- 
averted  head  with  a  kind  of  maiden  shame  under  his  arm, 
sighing  heavily,  weeping,  clinging  to  him.  It  was  wicked 
truth. 

Not  a  word  of  love  between  them! 

Was  ever  hero  in  this  fashion  won  ? 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  LITTLE  BIRD  AND  THE  FALCON  :    A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE  I 

At  a  season  when  the  pleasant  South-western  island  lias 
few  atti-actions  to  other  than  invalids  and  hermits  ena- 
moured of  wind  and  rain,  the  potent  nobleman.  Lord  Mount- 
falcon,  still  lingered  there  to  the  disgust  of  his  friends  and 
special  parasite.  "  Mount's  in  for  it  again,"  they  said 
among  themselves.  "Hang  the  women!"  was  a  natural 
sequence.  For,  don't  you  see,  what  a  shame  it  was  of  the 
women  to  be  always  kindling  such  a  very  inflammiiblo 
subject!  All  understood  that  Cupid  had  twanged  his  bow, 
and  transfixed  a  peer  of  Britain  for  the  fiftieth  time:  but 
none  would  perceive,  though  he  vouched  for  it  with  his 
most  eloquent  oaths,  that  this  was  a  totally  different  case 
from  the  antecedent  ones.  So  it  had  been  sworn  to  tliciu 
too  fref[uently  before.  He  was  as  a  man  with  mighty 
tidings,  and  no  language  :  intensely  communicative,  but 
inarticulate.  Good  I'ound  oaths  had  formei'ly  compassed 
and  expounded  his  noble  emotions.  They  were  now  quite 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  blaspliemy,  even  when  emplia- 
Bized,  and  by  this  the  poor  lord  divinely   fell  the  case   wai 


:VJ'2  TiiK  uki)i:al  ok  KiciiAi;n  fkvkkix. 

iliffercnt.  Thoro  is  simictliiiif,''  iinprcssive  in  a  groafc  human 
hulk  writhiiiiT  uncler  the  iinuttfruble  torments  of  a  mastery 
lie  cannot  contend  with,  or  aceouut  foi-,  or  explain  hy  means 
of  intelliLrible  words.  At  first  lie  took  refup;e  in  the  depths 
of  his  contempt  for  women.  Cupid  gave  him  line.  When 
he  liad  come  to  vent  his  worst  of  them,  the  fair  face  stamped 
on  his  brain  beamed  the  more  triumphantly  :  so  the  har- 
pooned whale  rose  to  the  surface,  and  after  a  few  convnl- 
sions,  surrendered  his  huge  length.  My  lord  was  in  love 
with  Richanl's  young  wife.  He  gave  proofs  of  it  by  bury- 
ing himself  beside  her.  To  her,  could  she  have  seen  it,  he 
gave  further  proofs  of  a  real  devotion,  in  affecting,  and  in 
her  presence  feeling,  nothing  beyond  a  lively  interest  in  her 
well-being.  This  wonder,  that  when  near  her  he  should  be 
cool  and  composed,  and  when  away  from  her  wrapped  in  a 
tenijiest  of  desires,  was  matter  for  what  powers  of  cugitation 
the  heavy  nobleman  possessed. 

The  Hon.  Peter,  tired  of  his  journeys  to  and  fro,  urged 
him  to  press  the  business.  Lord  Mountfalcon  was  wiser, 
or  more  scrupulous,  than  his  parasite  Almost  every  even- 
ing he  saw  Lucy.  The  inexperienced  little  wife  apprehended 
no  hai-m  in  his  visits.  ^loreovcr,  Richard  had  commended 
her  to  the  care  of  Lord  Mountfalcon,  and  Lady  Judith. 
Lady  Judith  had  left  the  island  for  London  :  Lord  Mount- 
falcon remained.  There  could  be  no  harm.  If  she  had  ever 
thought  so,  she  no  longer  did.  Secretly,  perhaps,  she  wns 
flattei-ed.  Lord  ^lountfalcon  was  as  well  educated  as  it  is 
the  fortune  of  the  run  of  titled  elder  sons  to  be :  he  could 
talk  and  instruct :  he  was  a  lord  :  and  he  let  her  understand 
that  he  was  wicked,  very  w'icked,  and  that  she  improved 
him.  The  heroine,  in  common  with  the  hero,  has  her 
ambition  to  be  of  use  in  the  world — to  do  some  good :  a:id 
the  task  of  reclaiming  a  bad  man  is  extremely  seductive 
to  good  women.  Dear  to  their  tender  bosoms  as  old 
jhina  is  a  bad  man  they  are  mending  !  Lord  i\Iountfalcon 
had  none  of  the  arts  of  a  libertine :  his  gold,  his  title, 
and  his  person,  had  hitherto  preserved  him  from  having 
long  to  sigh  in  vain,  or  sigh  at  all,  possibly :  the  Hon. 
Peter  did  his  villanics  for  him.  No  alarm  was  given  to 
Lucy's  pure  instinct,  as  might  have  been  the  case  had  my 
loi'd  been  over-adept.  It  was  nice  in  her  maityi-dom  to  havo 
A  true  friend   to  suppoi-fc  her,  and  really  to  be  able  to  do 


A  BEllRY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  393 

something  for  that  friend.  Too  simple-minded  to  think 
much  of  his  lordship's  position,  she  was  yet  a  woman.  "  He, 
a  great  nobleman,  does  not  scorn  to  acknowledge  me,  and 
think  something  of  me,"  may  have  been  one  of  the  half- 
thoughts  passing  through  her  now  and  then,  as  she  reflected 
in  self-defence  on  the  proud  family  she  had  married  into, 

January  was  watering  and  freezing  old  eai'th  by  turns, 
when  the  Hon.  Peter  travelled  down  to  the  sun  of  his  purse 
with  great  news.  He  had  no  sooner  broached  his  lordship's 
immediate  weakness,  than  ]\Iountfalcon  began  to  plunge  like 
a  heavy  dragoon  in  diflSculties.  He  swore  by  this  and  that 
he  had  come  across  an  angel  for  his  sins,  and  would  do  her 
no  hurt.  The  next  moment  he  swore  she  must  be  his,  though 
she  cursed  like  a  cat.  His  lordship's  illustrations  were  not 
choice.  "  I  haven't  advanced  an  inch,"  he  groaned.  "  Bray- 
dor  !  upon  my  soul,  that  little  woman  could  do  anything 
with  me.  By  heaven  !  I'd  marry  her  to-morrow.  Here  I 
am,  seeing  her  every  day  in  the  week  out  or  in,  and  what  do 
you  think  she  gets  me  to  talk  about  P — history!  Isn't  it 
enough  to  make  a  fellow  mad  ?  and  there  am  I  lecturing  like 
a  prig,  and  by  heaven  !  while  I'm  at  it  I  feel  a  pleasure  in 
it;  and  when  I  leave  the  house  I  should  feel  an  immense 
gratification  in  shooting  somebody.  What  do  they  say  in 
town  ?" 

"  Not  much,"  said  Brayder  significantly. 

"When's  that  fellow — her  husband — coming  down  ?" 

"  I  rather  hope  we've  settled  him  for  life,  Mount." 

Nobleman  and  parasite  exchanged  looks. 

"  How  d'ye  mean  ?" 

Brayder  hummed  an  air,  and  broke  it  to  say,  "  He's  in  for 
Don  Juan  at  a  gallop,  that's  all." 

"  The  deuce  !  Has  Bella  got  him  ?"  Mountfalcon  asked 
with  eagerness. 

Brayder  handed  my  lord  a  letter.     It  was  dated  from  the 
Sussex  coast,  signed  "  Richard,"  and  was  worded  thus  : 
."]\[y  beautiful  Devil!  — 

"  Since  we're  both  devils  together,  and  have  found  each 
other  out,  come  to  me  at  once,  or  I  shall  be  going  somewhere 
in  a  hurry.  Come,  my  bright  hell-star!  I  ran  away  froia 
you,  and  now  I  ask  you  to  come  to  me  !  You  have  taught 
me  how  devils  love,  and  I  can't  do  williout  you.  Come  an 
hr-ur  after  you  receive  this." 


394  TIIK  OnPKAI,  OF  IMCIIARD  FKVKUFL. 

^lonntfalcon  turned  over  the  letter  to  see  if  there  was  any 
more.  "  Coinjilinientary  love-epistle!"  he  remarked,  and 
risinu:  from  his  eluiir  and  stridin<^  about,  muttered,  "  The 
doff!   how  infamously  he  treats  his  wife!" 

"  Very  bad,"  said  IJrayder. 

*'  How  did  you  g(>t  hold  of  this  ?" 

"Strolled  into  Bulla's  dressing-room,  waiting  for  her — • 
turned  over  her  pincushion  hap-hazard.  You  know  her 
trick." 

"  By  Jove!  I  think  that  girl  does  it  on  purpose.  Thank 
heaven,  I  haven't  written  her  any  letters  for  an  age.  la 
she  going  to  him  ?" 

"  Not  she  !  But  it's  odd,  Mount ! — did  you  ever  know  her 
refuse  money  before  ?  She  tore  up  the  cheque  in  style,  and 
presented  me  the  fragments  with  two  or  three  of  the  deli- 
cacies of  language  she  learnt  at  your  Academy.  I  rather 
like  to  hear  a  woman  swear.     It  embellishes  her !" 

Mountfalcon  took  counsel  of  his  parasite  as  to  the  end  the 
letter  could  me  made  be  serve.  Both  conscientiously  agreed 
that  Richard's  behaviour  to  his  wife  was  infamous,  and  that 
he  at  least  deserved  no  mercy.  "But,"  said  his  lordship, 
"  it  won't  do  to  show  the  letter.  At  first  she'll  be  swearing 
it's  false,  and  then  she'll  stick  to  him  closer.  I  know  the 
Blut." 

"  The  rule  of  contrary,"  said  Brayder  carelessly.  "  Sho 
must  see  the  trahison  with  her  eyes.  They  believe  their 
eyes.  There's  your  chance.  Mount.  You  step  in  :  you  give 
her  revenge  and  consolation — two  birds  at  one  shot.  That's 
what  they  like." 

"  You're  an  ass,  Brayder,"  the  nobleman  exclaimed. 
"  You're  an  infernal  blackguard.  You  talk  of  this  little 
woman  as  if  she  and  other  women  were  all  of  a  piece.  I 
don't  see  anything  I  gain  by  this  confounded  letter.  Her 
husband's  a  brute — that's  clear." 

"  Will  you  leave  it  to  me,  Mount  ?" 

"  Be  damned  before  I  do  !"  muttered  my  loid. 

"  Thank  you.  Now  see  how  this  will  end.  You're  too 
Boft,  Mount.     You'll  be  made  a  fool  of." 

"  I  tell  you,  Brayder,  there's  nothing  to  be  done.  If  I 
carry  her  off — I've  been  on  the  point  of  doing  it  every  day — 
what'll  come  of  that  ?  She'll  look — I  can't  stand  her  eyes — • 
I  shall  be  a  fool — worse  off  with  her  than  I  am  now." 


A  BEERY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  395 

Jfountfalcon  yawned  despondently.  "  And  what  do  yon 
think  ?  "  he  pursued.  "  Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  fellow 
gnash  his  teeth  ?  She's  .  .  ."  he  mentioned  something  in  an 
underbreath,  and  turned  red  as  he  said  it. 

"  Hm  !  "  Brayder  put  up  his  mouth  and  rapped  the  handle 
of  his  cane  on  his  chin.  "  That's  disagreeable,  Moiant.  You 
don't  exactly  want  to  act  in  that  character.  You  haven't 
got  a  diploma.     Bother  !  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  love  her  a  bit  less  ?  "  broke  out  my  lord 
ir.  a  frenzy.  "  By  heaven  !  I'd  read  to  her  by  her  bedside, 
and  talk  that  infernal  history  to  her,  if  it  pleased  her,  all 
day  and  all  night." 

"  You're  evidently  graduating  for  a  midwife,  Mount." 

The  nobleman  appeared  silently  to  accept  the  imputation. 

*'  What  do  they  say  in  town  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

Brayder  said  the  sole  question  was,  whether  it  was  maid, 
■wife,  or  widow. 

"  I'll  go  to  her  this  evening,"  Mountfalcon  resumed,  after 
- — to  judge  by  the  cast  of  his  face — reflecting  deeply.  "  I'll 
go  to  her  this  evening.  She  shall  know  what  infernal  tor- 
ment she  makes  me  suffer." 

"  Do  you  moan  to  say  she  don't  know  it  ?  " 

"  Hasn't  an  idea — thinks  me  a  friend.  And  so,  by  heaven  ! 
I'll  be  to  her." 

"  A — hm  !  "  went  the  Honourable  Peter.  "  This  way  to 
the  sign  of  the  Green  Man,  ladies  !  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  pitched  out  of  the  window, 
Brayder  ?  " 

"  Once  was  enough,  Mount.  The  Salvage  Man  is  strong. 
I  may  have  forgotten  the  trick  of  alighting  on  my  feet. 
There — there  !  I'll  be  sworn  she's  excessively  innocent,  and 
thinks  you  a  disinterested  friend." 

"  I'll  go  to  her  this  evening,"  Mountfalcon  repeated. 
**  She  shall  know  what  damned  misery  it  is  to  see  her  in 
such  a  position.  I  can't  hold  out  any  longer.  Deceit's 
horrible  to  such  a  girl  as  that.  I'd  rather  have  her  cursing 
me  than" 

"  Caressing  ?  "  the  Hon.  Peter  ventured  to  suggest. 

"  Sjieaking  and  looking  as  she  docs,"  continued  my  lord, 
not  heeding  him.  "  Dear  little  girl  ! — she's  only  a  child 
You  haven't  an  idea  how  sensible  that  little  woman  is." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  inquired  the  cunning  one. 


396  TITK  ORDEAL  OF  rjCIIARD  FEVEREL. 

"  My  bolief  is,  Hiaydor,  that  there  are  aiifjcls  among 
women,"  said  ilouuLfalcon,  cvaclinj^  his  pai-asito's  eye  as  he 
Bpokc. 

To  the  woilil  Lord  Mountfalcon  was  the  thoroughly 
wicked  man ;  his  parasite  sim{)ly  ingeniously  dissipatecl. 
Full  many  a  man  of  God  had  thought  it  the  easier  task  to 
rcelaim  the  Hon.  Peter. 

Lucy  received  her  noble  friend  by  firelight  that  evening, 
and  sat  much  in  the  shade.  She  offered  to  have  the  candles 
brought  in.  He  begged  her  to  allow  the  room  to  remain  as 
it  was.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  observed  with 
a  certain  solemnity. 

"  Yes — to  me  ?  "  said  Lucy  quickly. 

Lord  Mountfalcon  knew  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  but 
how  to  say  it,  and  what  it  exactly  was,  he  did  not  know. 

"  You  conceal  it  admii-ably,"  he  began,  "  but  you  must  be 
very  lonely  here — I  fear,  unhappy." 

"  I  should  have  been  lonely,  but  for  your  kindness,  my 
lord,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  am  not  unhappy."  Her  face  "was  in 
shade  and  could  not  belie  her. 

"  Is  there  any  help  that  one  who  would  really  be  your 
friend  might  give  you,  Mrs.  Feverel  ?  " 

"  None  indeed  that  I  know  of,"  Lucy  replied.  "  Who  can 
help  us  to  pay  for  our  sins  ?  " 

"  At  least  you  may  permit  me  to  endeavour  to  pay  my 
debts,  since  you  have  helped  me  to  wash  out  some  of  my 
sins." 

"Ah,  my  lord!"  said  Lucy,  not  displeased.  It  is  sweet 
for  a  woman  to  believe  she  had  drawn  the  serpent's  teeth. 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth,"  Loid  Mountfalcon  went  on.  "  What 
object  could  I  have  in  deceiving  you  ?  I  know  you  quite 
above  flattery — so  different  from  other  women!" 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  say  that,"  interposed  Lucy. 

"According  to  my  experience,  then." 

"  But  you  say  you  have  met  such — such  very  bad 
women." 

"  I  have.  And  now  that  I  meet  a  good  one,  it  is  m^ 
misfortune." 

"  Your  misfortune,  Lord  Mountfalcon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  might  say  more." 

His  lordship  held  impressively  mute.. 


A  BEREY  TO  TflE  RESCUE.  397 

"  How  strange  men  are  !  "  thought  Lucy.  "  He  has  some 
unhappy  secret." 

Tom  Bakewell,  who  had  a  habit  of  coming  into  the  room 
on  various  pretences  during  the  nobleman's  visits,  put  a  stop 
to  the  revelation,  if  his  lordship  intended  to  make  any. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Lucy  said,  smiling :  "  Do  you 
know,  I  am  always  ashamed  to  ask  you  to  begin  to  read." 

Mountfalcon  stared.  "  To  read  ? — oh  !  ha  !  yes  !  "  he  re« 
membered  his  evening  duties.  "  Very  happy,  I'm  sure. 
Let  me  see.     Where  were  we  ?  " 

"  The  life  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  But  indeed  I  feel  quite 
ashamed  to  ask  you  to  read,  my  lord.  It's  new  to  me ;  like 
a  new  world — hearing  about  Emperors,  and  armies,  and 
things  that  really  have  been  on  the  earth  we  walk  upon.  It 
fills  my  mind.  But  it  must  have  ceased  to  interest  you,  and 
I  was  thinking  that  I  would  not  tease  you  any  more." 

"  Your  pleasure  is  mine,  Mrs.  Feverel.  'Pon  my  honour, 
I'd  read  till  I  was  hoarse,  to  hear  your  remarks." 

"  Are  you  laughing  at  me  ?  " 

*'  Do  I  look  so  ?  " 

Lord  Mountfalcon  had  fine  full  eyes,  and  by  merely  drop- 
ping the  lids  he  could  appear  to  endow  them  with  mental 
expression. 

"  No,  you  are  not,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  must  thank  you  for 
your  forbearance." 

The  nobleman  went  on  his  honour  loudly. 

Now  it  was  an  object  of  Lucy's  to  have  him  reading ;  for 
his  sake,  for  her  sake,  and  for  somebody  else's  sake ;  which 
somebody  else  was  probably  considered  first  in  the  matter. 
When  he  was  reading  to  her,  he  seemed  to  be  legitimizing 
his  presence  there ;  and  though  she  had  no  doubts  or  suspi. 
cions  whatever,  she  was  easier  in  her  heart  while  she  had 
him  employed  in  that  office.  So  she  rose  to  fetch  the  book, 
laid  it  open  on  the  table  at  his  lordship's  elbow,  and  quietly 
waited  to  ring  for  candles  when  he  should  be  willing  to  com- 
mence. 

That  evening  Lord  Mountfalcon  could  not  get  himself  up 
to  the  farce,  and  ho  felt  a  pity  for  the  stiungely  innocent 
unprotected  child  with  anguish  hanging  over  her,  that  with- 
held the  words  he  wanted  to  speak,  or  insinuate.  He  sat 
silent  and  did  nothing. 

"What  I  do  not  like  him  for,"  said  Lucy  meditatively,  "is 


n'JS  TiiK  oni>F..\r,  OK  niriiAun  ficvkkkl. 

his  chancrinfj  his  roHiriim.  lie  v/onld  have  been  siit'li  a  hci-o, 
but  foi-  that.      I  couUl  liave  K)ved  liiin." 

"  NVhd  is  it  you  could  have  loved,  Mrs.  Fevercl  r*  "  Lord 
Mount  fah'on  asked. 

*'  The  Kmjieror  Julian." 

"Oh!  the  Emperor  Julian!  "Well,  he  waR  an  apnsfafo: 
but  then,  you  know,  he  meant  what  he  was  abt)ut.  lie  didn't 
even  do  it  for  a  woman." 

"  For  a  woman !  "  cried  Lucy.  "  What  man  would  for  a 
woman  ? " 

"  I  would." 

"  You,  Loi-d  ]Mountfaleon  ?  " 

"  Yes.      I'd  turn  Catholic  to-morrow." 

"  You  make  me  very  unhappy  if  you  say  that,  my  lord.** 

"  Then  I'll  unsay  it." 

Lucy  slightly  shuddered.  She  put  her  hand  upon  the  bell 
to  ring  for  lights. 

"  Do  you  reject  a  convert,  Mrs.  Feverel  ?  "  said  the  noble- 
man. 

"  Oh  yes  !  yes  !  I  do.  One  who  does  not  give  his  con- 
science I  would  not  have." 

"  If  he  gives  his  heart  and  body  can  he  give  more  ?  " 

Lucy's  hand  pressed  the  bell.  She  did  not  like  the  doubt- 
ful  light  with  one  who  was  so  unscrupulous.  Lord  Mount- 
falcon  had  never  spoken  in  this  way  before.  He  spoke 
better,  too.  She  missed  the  aristocratic  twang  in  his  voice, 
and  the  hesitation  for  words,  and  fluid  lordliness  with  which 
he  rolled  over  difficulties  in  speech. 

Simultaneously  with  the  sounding  of  the  bell  the  door 
opened,  and  presented  Tom  Bakewell.  There  was  a  double 
knock  at  the  same  instant  at  the  street  deor.  Lucy  delayed 
to  give  orders. 

"  Can  it  be  a  letter,  Tom  ? — so  late  !  "  she  said,  changing 
colour.     "  Pray  run  and  see." 

"  That  an't  a  powst,"  Tom  remarked,  as  he  obeyed  his 
mistress. 

"  Are  you  very  anxious  for  a  letter,  Mrs.  Feverel  ?  "  Lord 
Mountfalcon  inquired. 

'•  Oh,  no  ! — yes,  I  am,  very !  "  said  Lucy.  Her  quick  ear 
caught  the  tones  of  a  voice  she  remembered.  "  That  dear 
old  thing  has  come  to  see  me,"  she  cried,  starting  up. 

Tom  ushered  a  bunch  of  black  satin  into  the  room. 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  899 

"  llrs.  Berry  !  "  said  Lucy,  running  up  to  her  and  kissing 
her. 

"  Me,  my  darlin' !  "  Mrs.  Berry,  breathless  and  rosy  with 
her  journey,  returned  the  salute.  "  Me  truly  it  is,  in  fault 
of  a  better,  for  I  ain't  one  to  stand  by  and  give  the  devil 
his  licence — roamin' !  and  the  salt  sure  enough  have  spilte 
my  bride-gown  at  the  beginnin',  which  ain't  the  best  sign. 
Bless  ye! — Oh,  here  he  is."  She  beheld  a  male  figure  in  a 
chair  by  the  half  light,  and  swung  round  to  address  him. 
"  You  bad  man  !  "  she  held  aloft  one  of  her  fat  fingers,  "  I've 
come  on  ye  like  a  bolt,  I  have,  and  goin'  to  make  ye  do  your 
duty,  naughty  boy  !  But  your  my  darlin'  babe,"  she  melted, 
as  was  her  custom,  "  and  I'll  never  meet  you  and  not  give  to 
ye  the  kiss  of  a  mother." 

Before  Lord  Mountfalcon  could  find  time  to  expostulate 
the  soft  woman  had  him  by  the  neck,  and  was  down  amoug 
his  luxurious  whiskers. 

"  Ha  !  "  She  gave  a  smothered  shriek,  and  fell  back. 
"  What  hair's  that  ?  " 

Tom  Bakewell  just  then  illumined  the  transaction. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious  !  "  Mrs.  Berry  breathed  with  horror, 
"  I  been  and  kiss  a  strange  man  !  " 

Lucy,  half-laughing,  bat  in  dreadful  concern,  begged  the 
noble  lord  to  excuse  the  woful  mistake. 

"  Extremely  flattered,  highly  favoured,  I'm  sure,"  said  his 
lord.ship,  re-arranging  his  disconcerted  moustache;  "may  I 
beg  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  ?  " 

"  My  husband's  dear  old  nurse — Mrs.  Berry,"  said  Lucy, 
taking  her  hand  to  lend  her  countenance.  "  Lord  Mount- 
falcon,  Mrs.  Berry." 

Mrs.  Berry  sought  grace  while  she  performed  a  series  of 
apologetic  bobs,  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her  fore- 
head. "  'M  sure,  my  loi'd  !  'm  sure,  ray  lord  !  had  I  a'  known 
— your  lordship  know  I  never  should  'a  presume.  Oh,  dear  ! 
oh,  dear!  it  was  accidentals,  quite,  my  lord!  mistakin'  of 
your  lordship  for  another.  I  never,  never  kiss  a  man  but 
my  babe  and  my  Berry,  never  !  no  indeed !  not  bein'  the 
woman  to " 

"  Pray  don't  exclude  me  now,"  said  the  affable  nobleman. 

liucy  put  her  into  a  chair  :  Lord  Mountfalcon  asked  for  au 
account  of  her  passage  over  to  the  island  ;  receiving  distress- 
ingly full  particulars,  by  which  it  was  revealed  that  tlie  soft- 


400  TnK  OTIPFAL  OF  RirnAT^P  FFVEREL. 

ticP9  of  her  heart  was  only  equalled  by  the  weakness  of  her 
Btoinach.     The  ixvital  calmed  Mrs.  Bciiy  down. 

"  Well,  and  where's  my — whcre's  Mr.  Richard  ?  'yer  hus- 
band, my  dear  ?  "  Mrs.  Berry  turned  from  her  tale  to  ques- 
tion. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  see  him  hero  ?  "  said  Lucy  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  And  where  else,  my  love?  since  he  haven't  been  seen  in 
London  a  whole  fortnight. 

Lucy  did  not  speak. 

"  We  will  dismiss  the  Emperor  Julian  till  to-morrow,  I 
think,"  said  Lord  Mountfalcon  rising,  and  bowing. 

Lucy  gave  him  her  hand  with  mute  thanks.  Ho  touched 
it  distantly,  embraced  ]\[rs.  Berry  in  a  farewell  bow  and  was 
shown  out  of  the  house  by  Tom  Bakewell. 

The  moment  he  was  satisfactorily  gone,  Mrs.  Berry  threw 
Tip  her  arms.  "  Did  ye  ever  know  sich  a  horrid  thing  to  go 
and  happen  to  a  virtous  woman  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  could 
cry  at  it,  I  could  !  To  be  goin'  and  kissin'  a  strange  hairy 
man  !  Oh,  dear  me  !  what's  comin'  next,  I  wonder  ?  Whis- 
kers !  thinks  1 — for  I  know  the  touch  o'  whiskers — 't  ain't 
like  other  hair — what !  have  he  growed  a  crop  that  sudden, 
I  says  to  myself ;  and  it  kind  o'  flashed  on  me  I  been  and 
made  a  awful  mistake  !  and  the  lights  come  in,  and  I  see 
that  great  hairy  man — beggin'  his  pardon — nobleman,  and 
if  I  could  'a  dropped  through  the  floor  out  o'  sight  o'  men, 
drat  'em  !  they're  al'ays  in  the  way,  that  they  are  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Berry,"  Lucy  checked  her,  "  did  you  expect  to  find 
him  here  ?  " 

"  Askin'  that  solemn  ?  "  retorted  Berry.  "  What  him  ? 
your  husband  ?  O'  course  I  did  !  and  you  got  him — some- 
•wheres  hid." 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  my  husband  for  fifteen  days," 
said  Lucy,  and  her  tears  rolled  heavily  off  her  cheeks. 

"  Not  beer  from  him  ! — fifteen  days  !  "   Berry  echoed. 

"  0  Mrs.  Berry  !  dear  kind  Mrs.  Berry  !  have  you  no 
news  ?  nothing  to  tell  me !  I've  borne  it  so  long.  They're 
cruel  to  me,  Mrs.  Berry.  Oh,  do  you  know  if  I  have  offended 
him — my  husband  ?  While  he  wrote  I  did  not  complain.  I 
could  live  on  his  letters  for  years.  But  not  to  hear  from 
him  !  To  think  I  have  ruined  him,  and  that  he  repents ! 
Do  they   want  to  take  him  from   me  ?     Do  they  want  mn 


A  BEERY  TO  TIIK  RESCUE.  401 

dead  ?  0  ]\Irs.  Berry !  I've  had  no  one  to  speaTc  out  my 
heart  to  all  this  time,  and  I  cannot,  cannot  help  crying, 
Mrs.  Berry  !" 

Mrs.  Berry  was  inclined  to  be  miserable  at  what  she 
heard  from  Lncy's  lips,  and  she  was  herself  fall  of  dire 
apprehension ;  but  it  was  never  this  excellent  creature's 
system  to  be  miserable  in  company.  The  sight  of  a  soitow 
tuat  was  not  positive,  and  could  not  refer  to  proof,  set  her 
resolutely  the  other  way. 

"  Fiddle-faddle,"  she  said.  "  I'd  like  to  see  him  repent ! 
He  won't  find  anywheres  a  beauty  like  his  own  dear  little 
wife,  and  he  know  it.  Now,  look  you  here,  my  dear — you 
blessed  weepin'  pet — the  man  that  could  see  ye  with  that 
hair  of  yours  there  in  ruins,  and  he  backed  by  the  law,  and 
not  rush  into  your  arms  and  hold  ye  squeezed  for  life,  he 
ain't  got  much  man  in  him,  I  say  ;  and  no  one  can  say  that 
of  my  babe  !  I  was  sayin,'look  here,  to  comfort  ye — Oh,  why, 
to  be  sure  he've  got  some  surprise  for  ye.  And  so've  I,  my 
lamb  !  Hark,  now  !  His-father've  come  to  town,  like  a  good 
reasonable  man  at  last,  to  a-nite  ye  both,  and  bring  your 
bodies  together,  as  your  hearts  is,  for  everlastin'.  Now 
ain't  that  news  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Lucy,  "  that  takes  my  last  hope  away.  I 
thought  he  had  gone  to  his  father."  She  burst  into  fresh 
tears. 

Mrs.  Berry  paused,  disturbed. 

"  Belike  he's  travellin'  aftei-  him,"  she  suggested. 

"  Fifteen  days,  Mrs.  Berry  !" 

*'  Ah,  fifteen  weeks,  my  dear,  after  sich  a  man  as  that. 
He's  a  regular  meteor,  is  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  Raynham 
Abbey.  Well,  so  hark  you  here.  I  says  to  myself,  that 
knows  him — for  I  did  think  my  babe  .was  in  his  natural  nest 
— I  says,  the  bar'nct  '11  never  write  for  you  both  to  come  up 
and  beg  forgiveness,  so  down  I'll  go  and  fetch  you  up.  For 
there  was  your  mistake,  my  dear,  ever  to  leave  your  husband 
to  go  away  from  ye  one  hour  in  a  young  marriage.  It's 
dangerous,  it's  mad,  it's  wrong,  and  it's  only  to  be  righted 
by  your  obeyin'  of  me,  as  I  commands  it :  for  I  has  my  Cts, 
though  I  am  a  soft  'un.  Obey  me,  and  ye'll  be  happy  to- 
morrow— or  the  next  to  it." 

Lucy  was  willing  to  see  comfort.     She  was  weaiy  of  her 

2d 


402  THE  CMtDEAL  OF  IlICHAUD  FEVEREL. 

self-inflicted  martyrdom,  and  glad  to  give  herself  up  to 
sonieboily  else's  guidance  utterly. 

*'  I?\it  why  docs  he  not  write  to  me,  Mrs.  Berry  ?" 

"  'Cause,  'cause — wlio  can  tell  the  why  of  men,  my  dear? 
But  that  he  love  ye  faitliful,  I'll  swear.  Haven't  he  groaned 
in  my  arms  that  he  couldn't  come  to  ye  ? — weak  wretch  ! 
Hasn't  he  swore  how  he  loved  ye  to  me,  poor  young  man ! 
But  this  is  your  fault,  ray  sweet.  Yes,  it  be.  You  should 
'a  followed  my  'dvice  at  the  fust — 'stead  o'  going  into  your 
'ei-oics  about  this  and  t'other."  Here  Mrs.  Beriy  poured 
forth  fresh  sentences  on  matrimony,  pointed  especially  at 
young  couples.  "  I  should  'a  been  a  fool  if  I  hadn't  suffered 
m^'self,"  she  confessed,  "  so  I'll  thank  my  Berry  if  I  makes 
you  wise  in  season." 

Lucy  smoothed  her  ruddy  plump  cheeks,  and  gazed  up 
affectionately  into  the  soft  woman's  kind  brown  eyes.  En- 
dearing phi-ases  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  And  as  she 
gazed  Lucy  blushed,  as  one  who  has  something  very  secret 
to  tell,  very  sweet,  very  strange,  but  cannot  quite  bring 
herself  to  speak  it. 

"  Well !  there's  three  men  in  my  life  I  kissed,"  said  Mrs. 
Berry,  too  much  absorbed  in  her  extiaoi-dinary  adventui-e  to 
notice  the  young  wife's  struggling  bosom,  "  three  men,  and 
one  a  nobleman  !  He  've  got  more  whisker  than  my  Berry. 
I  wonder  what  the  man  thought.  Ten  to  one  he'll  think, 
now,  I  was  glad  o'  my  chance — they're  that  vain,  whether 
they's  lords  or  commons.  How  was  I  to  know  ?  I  nat'ral 
thinks  none  but  her  husband  'd  sit  in  that  chair.  Ha  !  and 
in  the  dark  'i  and  alone  with  ye  ?"  ^Irs.  Berry  hardened 
her  eyes,  "  and  your  husband  away  ?  What  do  this  mean  H 
Tell  to  me,  child,  what  it  mean  his  bein'  here  alone  without 
ere  a  candle  r" 

"  Lord  Mouutfalcon  is  the  only  friend  I  have  here,"  said 
Lucy.  "  He  is  very  kind.  He  comes  almost  every  even- 
ing." 

"Lord  Muntfalcon — that  his  name!"  Mrs.  Berry  ex- 
claimed. "  I  been  that  flurried  by  the  man,  I  didn't  mind  it 
ai  first.  He  come  every  evenin',  anil  your  husband  out  o* 
sight !  My  goodness  me !  it's  gettin'  worse  and  worse. 
And  wha.,  do  he  come  for,  now,  ma'am?  Now  tell  me 
candid  what  ye  do  together  here  in  the  daik  of  an  evenin'." 

Airs.  Berry  glanced  severely. 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  403 

"0  Mrs.  Berry!  please  not  to  speak  in  that  way — 1  don't 
like  it,"  said  Lucy  pouting. 

"  What  do  he  come  for,  I  ask  ?  " 

'*  Because  he  is  kind,  Mrs.  Berry.  He  sees  me  very  lonrly, 
and  wishes  to  amuse  me.'     And  he  tells  me  of  things  I  know 

nothing  about  and " 

"  And  wants  to  be  a  teachin'  some  of  his  things,  mayhap," 
Mi'S.  Berry  interrupted  with  a  ruflled  breast. 

"You  are  a  very  ungenerous,  susjjicious,  naughty  old 
woman,"  said  Lucy,  chiding  her. 

"  And  you're  a  silly,  unsuspectin'  little  bird,"  Mrs.  Berry 
retorted,  as  she  returned  her  taps  on  the  cheek.  "  You 
haven't  told  me  what  ye  do  together,  and  what's  his  excuse 
for  comin'." 

"Well,  then,  Mrs.  Berry,  almost  es'ery  evening  that  he 
comes  we  read  History,  and  he  exphuns  tlie  battles,  and 
talks  to  me  about  the  great  men.  And  lie  says  I'm  not  silly, 
Mrs.  Berry." 

"  That's  one  bit  o'  lime  on  your  wings,  my  bird.  History, 
indeed  !  History  to  a  young  married  lovely  woman  alone  in 
the  dark !  a  pretty  Histor3r !  Why,  I  know  that  man's  name, 
my  dear.  He's  a  notoi'ious  living  rake,  that  Lord  Mount- 
falcon.     No  woman's  safe  with  him." 

"  Ah,  but  he  hasn't  deceived  me,  Mrs.  Berry.  He  has  not 
pretended  he  was  good."  . 

"  More's  his  art,"  quoth  the  experienced  dame.  "  So  you 
read  History  together  in  the  dark,  my  dear !  " 

"  I  was  unwell  to-night,  Mrs.  Berry.  I  wanted  him  not  to 
see  my  face.  Look  !  there's  the  book  open  ready  I'or  him 
when  the  candles  come  in.  And  now,  you  dear  kind  darling 
old  thing,  let  me  kiss  you  for  coming  to  me.  I  do  love  you. 
Talk  of  other  things." 

"  So  we  will,"  said  Mrs.  Berry  softening  to  Lucy's  caresses. 
"So  let  us.  A  nobleman,  indeed  !  alone  with  a  young  wife 
in  the  dark,  and  she  sich  a  beauty!  I  say  this  shall  be  put 
a  stop  to  now  and  'enceforth,  on  the  spot  it  shall !  He  won't 
meneuvle  Bessy  Berry  with  his  arts.  There !  I  drop  him. 
I'm  dyin'  for  a  cup  o'  tea,  my  dear." 

Lucy  got  up  to  I'ing  the  bell,  and  as  Mrs.  Berry,  incapable 
of  quite  dro])ping  him,  was  continuing  to  say :  "  Let  him  go 
and  boast  I  kiss  him;  he  ain't  notliin'  to  bo  'shamed  of  in  a 
chaste   woman's  kiss — unawares — which  men  don.'t  get   too 

2  u  2 


404  THE  OIIDEAL  OF  RTCnA"RD  FEVEREL. 

often  in  their  lives,  I  can  assure  'cm;** — licr  cyo  surveyed 
Lucy's  fiirui-e. 

Lo,  when  Lucy  returned  to  her,  Mrs.  Berry  surrounded 
her  with  her  arms,  and  drew  her  into  feminine  depths.  "  Oh, 
you  blessed  !  "  slie  cried  in  most  meaning  tone,  "  you  good, 
lovin',  proper  litth^  wife,  you  !  " 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Berry !  "  lisps  Lucy,  opening  the  most 
innocent  blue  eyes. 

"As  if  J  couldn't  sec,  you  pet!  It  was  my  flurry  blinded 
me,  or  I'd  *a  marked  ye  the  fust  shock,  Thinkin'  to  deceive 
me!" 

Mrs  Berry's  eyes  spoke  generations.  Lucy's  wavered; 
she  coloured  all  over,  and  hid  her  face  on  the  bounteous 
breast  that  mounted  to  her. 

"  You're  a  sweet  one,"  murmured  the  soft  woman,  patting 
her  back,  and  rocking  her.  "  You're  a  rose,  you  are  !  and  a 
bud  on  your  stalk.  Haven't  told  a  word  to  your  husband, 
my  dear  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

Lucy  shook  her  head,  looking  sly  and  shy. 

"  That's  right.  We'll  give  him  a  surprise  ;  let  it  come  all 
at  once  on  him,  and  thinks  he — losin'  breath — '  I'm  a  father !  * 
Nor  a  hint  even  you  haven't  give  him  ?  " 

Lucy  kissed  her,  to  indicate  it  was  quite  a  secret. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  a  sweet  one,"  said  Bessy  Berry,  and  rocked 
her  more  closely  and  lovingly. 

Then  these  two  had  a  whispered  conversation,  from  "which 
let  all  of  male  persuasion  retire  a  space  nothing  under  one 
mile. 

Returning,  after  a  due  interval,  we  see  Mrs.  Berry  count- 
ing dates  on  her  fingers'  ends.  Concluding  the  sum,  she 
cries  prophetically :  "  Now  this  right  everything — a  baby  in 
the  balance  !  Now  I  say  this  angel-infant  come  from  on 
high.  It's  God's  messenger,  my  love  !  and  it's  not  wrong  to 
Bay  so.  He  thinks  you  worthy,  or  you  wouldn't  'a  had  one 
— not  for  all  the  tr^in'  in  the  world,  you  wouldn't,  and  some 
tries  hard  enough,  poor  creatures  !  Now  let  us  rejice  and 
make  merry!  I'm  for  cryin'  and  langhin',  one  and  the  same. 
This  is  the  blessed  seal  of  matrimony,  which  Berry  never 
stamp  on  me.  It's  be  hoped  it's  a  boy.  Make  that  man  a 
gran'father,  and  his  gran'child  a  son,  and  you  got  him  safe. 
Oil  !  this  is  what  I  call  'appiness,  and  I'll  have  my  tea  a 
little  stronger  in  consequence.  I  declare  I  could  get  tipsy 
to  know  this  joyful  news." 


A.  BETIIIY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  405 

So  Mrs.  Berry  carolled.  Slie  liad  lier  tea  a  little  stronger. 
She  ate  and  slie  drank  ;  slie  rejoiced  and  made  merry.  The 
bliss  of  the  chaste  was  liers. 

Says  Lucy  demurely :  "  K'ow  you  know  why  I  read 
History,  and  that  sort  of  books." 

"  Do  I  ?"  replies  Berry.  "  Belike  I  do.  Since  what  you 
done's  so  good,  my  darlin',  I'm  agreeable  to  anything.  A 
fig  for  all  the  lords  !  They  can't  come  anigh  a  baby.  You 
may  i^ead  Voyages  and  Travels,  my  dear,  and  Romances,  and 
Tales  of  Love  and  "War.  Tou  cut  tbe  liddle  in  your  own 
dear  way,  and  that's  all  I  cares  for." 

"  No,  but  you  don't  understand,"  persists  Lucy.  "  I  only 
read  sensible  books,  and  talk  of  serious  things,  because  I'm 
sure  .  .  .  because  I  have  heard  say  .  .  .  dear  Mrs.  Berry ! 
don't  you  undei-stand  now  ?" 

Mrs.  Berry  smacked  her  knees.  "  Only  to  think  of  her 
bein'  that  thoughtful !  and  she  a  Catholic,  too !  Never  tell 
me  that  people  of  one  religion  ain't  as  good  as  anothei",  after 
that.  Why,  you  want  to  make  him  a  historian,  to  be  sure  ! 
And  that  rake  of  a  lord  who've  been  comin'  here  playin'  at 
wolf,  you  been  and  made  him — unbeknown  to  himself — sort 
o'  tutor  to  the  unborn  blessed !  Ha !  ha !  say  that  little 
women  ain't  g'ot  art  ekal  to  the  cunningest  of  'em.  Oh  !  I 
understand.  Why,  to  be  sure,  didn't  I  know  a  lady,  a  widow 
of  a  clergyman:  he  was  a  postermost  child,  and  afore  his 
birth  that  woman  read  nothin'  but  Blair's  '  Grave '  over  and 
over  again,  from  the  end  to  the  beginnin' ; — that's  a  serious 
book  ! — very  hard  readin' ! — and  at  four  year  of  age  that  child 
that  come  of  it  rcelly  was  the  piousest  infant ! — he  was  like 
a  little  curate.  His  eyes  was  up ;  he  talked  so  solemn.' 
Mrs.  Berry  imitated  the  little  curate's  appearance  and  man- 
ner of  speaking.     "So  she  got  her  wish,  for  one  !" 

But  at  this  lady  Lucy  laughed. 

They  chattered  on  happily  till  bedtime.  Lucy  arranged 
for  Mr 3.  Berry  to  sleep  with  her.  "If  it's  not  dreadful  to 
ye,  my  sweet,  slcepin'  beside  a  woman,"  said  ]\lrs.  Beriy. 
"  I  know  it  were  to  me  shortly  after  my  Berry,  and  felt  it. 
It  don't  somehow  seem  nat'ral  after  matrimony — a  woman 
ill  your  bed  !  I  was  'bliged  t'  avo  somebody,  for  the  cold 
Bliccts  do  give  yo  the  creeps  when  you've  been  used  to  that 
that's  dift'erent." 

Upstairs    they    went    together,    Lucy    not    sharing    tbcBO 


406  THE  OHDCAL  OF  RICHARD  TEVEREL. 

objoctions.  Tlion  Lncy  opened  certain  drawers,  and  exhihitod 
pretty  cajis,  and  laced  linen,  all  adapted  for  a  vei-y  small 
body,  all  the  work  of  her  own  hands  ;  and  ^Irs.  Beriy  pi-aised 
them  and  her.  "You  been  guessing  a  boy  — womanlike," 
she  said.  Then  they  cooed,  and  kissed,  and  undressed  by 
the  tire,  and  knelt  at  the  bedside,  with  their  arms  about  each 
other,  praying;  both  praying  for  the  unborn  child;  and  Mrs. 
Berry  pressed  Lucy's  waist  the  moment  she  was  about  to 
breathe  the  petition  to  heaven  to  shield  and  bless  that 
coming  life;  and  thereat  Lucy  closed  to  her,  and  felt  a  strong 
lore  for  her.  Then  Lucy  got  into  bed  first,  leaving  Berry 
to  put  out  the  light,  and  before  she  did  so.  Berry  leaned  over 
her,  and  eyed  her  roguishly,  saying,  "I  never  see  ye  likethi.*", 
but  I'm  half  in  love  with  ye  myself,  you  blushin'  beauty  ! 
Sweet's  your  eyes,  and  your  hair  do  take  one  so — lyin'  back. 
I'd  never  forgive  my  father  if  he  kep  me  away  from  ye  four- 
and-twenty  hours  just  Husband  o'  that !"  Berry  pointed 
at  the  young  wife's  loveliness.  "  Ye  look  so  ripe  with  kisses, 
and  there  they  are  a-langishin'  I —  .  .  You  never  look 
so  but  in  your  bed,  ye  beauty ! — just  as  it  ought  to  be." 
Lucy  had  to  pretend  to  rise  to  put  out  the  light  before  Berry 
would  give  up  her  amorous  chaste  soliloquy.  Then  they  lay 
in  bed,  and  ilrs.  Berry  fondled  her,  and  arranged  for  their 
depai-ture  to-morrow,  and  reviewed  Richard's  emotions  when 
he  came  to  hear  he  was  going  to  be  made  a  father  by  her, 
and  hinted  at  Lucy's  delicious  shivers  when  Richard  was 
igain  in  his  rightful  place,  which  she,  Bessy  Berry,  now 
usurped ;  and  all  sorts  of  amorous  sweet  things ;  enough  to 
make  one  fancy  the  adage  subverted,  that  stolen  fruits  are 
jweetest ;  she  drew  such  glowing  pictures  of  bliss  within  the 
law  and  the  limits  of  the  conscience,  till  at  last,  worn  out, 
Lucy  murmured  "  Peepy,  dear  Berry,"  and  the  soft  woman 
^•adually  ceased  her  chirp. 

Bessy  Beny  did  not  sleep.  She  lay  thinking  of  the  sweet 
bi'ave  heart  beside  her,  and  listening  to  Lucy's  breath  as  it 
came  and  went ;  squeezing  the  fair  sleeper's  hand  now  and 
then,  to  ease  her  love  as  her  reflections  warmed.  A  storm  of 
wind  came  howling  over  the  Hampshire  hills,  and  spi^ang 
white  foam  on  the  water,  and  shook  the  bare  trees.  It 
passed,  leaving  a  thin  cloth  of  snow  on  the  wintry  land.  The 
moon  shone  brilliantly.  Berry  heard  the  house-dog  bark. 
His  bark  was  bavagc  and  persistent.    She  was  roused  by  the 


A  BERRY  TO  THE  RESCUE.  407 

noise.  By  and  by  slie  fancied  she  heard  a  movement  in  the 
house ;  then  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  house-door  opened. 
She  cocked  her  ears,  and  could  ahnost  make  out  voices  in 
the  midnight  stillness.  She  slipped  from  the  bed,  locked 
and  bolted  the  door  of  the  room,  assured  herself  of  Lucy's 
unconsciousness,  and  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  window.  The 
trees  all  stood  white  to  the  north  ;  the  ground  glittered  ;  the 
cold  was  keen.  Berry  wrapped  her  fat  arms  across  her 
bosom,  and  peeped  as  close  over  into  the  gai'den  as  the  situa- 
tion of  the  window  permitted.  Berry  was  a  soft,  not  a 
timid,  woman  :  and  it  happened  this  night  that  her  thoughts 
were  above  the  fears  of  the  dark.  She  was  sure  of  the 
voices ;  curiosity  without  a  shade  of  alarm  held  her  on  the 
watch  ;  and  gathering  bundles  of  her  day-apparel  round  her 
neck  and  shouldei-s,  she  silenced  the  chattering  of  her  teeth 
as  well  as  she  could,  and  remained  stationary.  The  low  hum 
of  the  voices  came  to  a  break  ;  something  was  said  in  a 
louder  tone ;  the  house-door  quietly  shut ;  a  man  walked  out 
of  the  garden  into  the  road.  He  paused  opposite  her 
window,  and  Berry  let  the  blind  go  back  to  its  place,  and 
peeped  from  behind  an  edge  of  it.  lie  was  in  the  shadow  of 
the  house,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  discern  much  of  his 
figure.  After  some  minutes  he  walked  rapidly  away,  and 
Berry  returned  to  the  bed  an  icicle,  from  which  Lucy's 
limbs  sensitively  shrank. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Berry  asked  Tom  Bakewell  if  he  had 
been  disturbed  in  the  night.  Tom,  the  mysterious,  said  he 
had  slept  like  a  top.  Mrs.  Berry  went  into  the  garden.  The 
snow  was  partially  melted ;  all  save  one  spot,  just  under  tlie 
portal,  and  there  she  saw  the  print  of  a  man's  foot.  By 
some  strange  guidance  it  occurred  to  her  to  go  and  find  one 
of  Richard's  boots.  She  did  so,  and,  un perceived,  she 
measured  the  sole  of  the  boot  in  that  solitary  footmark. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  fitted.  She  tried  it  iiora 
heel  to  too  a  dozen  times. 


408  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
Clare's  diart. 

Sib  Austin  Feverel  had  come  to  town  with  the  ecreinty 
of  a  philosopher  who  says,  'Tis  now  time  ;  and  the  satishu-- 
tion  of  a  man  who  has  not  arrived  thereat  without  a 
strugi^le.  He  had  almost  for^^iven  his  son.  His  deep  love 
for  liira  had  well-nigh  shaken  loose  from  wounded  pride  and 
more  tenacious  vanity.  Stirrings  of  a  remote  sympathy  i'ur 
tlie  creature  who  had  robbed  him  of  his  son  and  hewed  at 
his  System,  were  in  his  heart  of  hearts.  Tliis  he  knew  ;  and 
in  his  own  mind  he  took  credit  for  his  softness.  But  tlie 
world  must  not  suppose  him  soft;  the  world  must  think  lie 
was  still  acting  on  his  S^-stem.  Otherwise  what  would  his 
long  absence  signify  ? — Something  highly  unphilosophical. 
So,  though  love  was  strong,  and  was  moving  him  to  a 
straightforward  course,  the  last  tug  of  vanity  drew  him  still 
aslant. 

The  Aphorist  read  himself  so  well,  that  to  juggle  with 
himself  was  a  necessity.  As  he  wished  the  world  to  see 
him,  he  beheld  himself:  one  who  entirely  put  aside  meio 
personal  feelings  :  one  in  whom  paiental  duty,  based  on  tlie 
science  of  life,  was  paramount :  a  Scientific  Humanist,  in 
short 

He  was,  therefore,  rather  surprised  at  a  coldness  in  Lady 
Blandish's  manner  when  he  did  appear.  "  At  last !  "  said 
the  lady;  in  a  sad  way  that  sounded  reproachfully.  Now  the 
Scientific  Humanist  had,  of  course,  nothing  to  reproach 
himself  with. 

But  where  was  Richard  ? 

Adrian  positively  aveired  he  was  not  with  his  wife. 

"  If  he  had  gone,"  said  the  baronet,  "  he  would  have  anti- 
cipated  me  by  a  few  hours." 

1'his,  when  repeated  to  Lady  Blandish,  should  have  pro- 
pitiated her,  and  shown  his  great  forgiveness.  She,  how- 
ever, sighed,  and  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

Their  converse  was  not  happy  and  deeply  intimate.  Philo- 
sophy did  not  seem  to  catch  her  mind  ;  and  fine  phrases 
encountered  a  rueful  assent,  more  flattering  to  their  grandeut 
than  to  their  influence. 


CLARE'S  DIAPvY.  4.0J 

Days  went  by.  Richard  did  not  present  timsdf.  Sir 
Austin's  pitch  of  self-command  was  to  await  the  youth  with- 
out signs  of  impatience. 

Seeing  this,  the  lady  told  him  her  fears  for  Richard,  and 
mentioned  the  rumour  of  him  that  was  about. 

"  If,"  said  the  baronet,  "  this  person,  his  wife,  is  what  you 
paint  her,  I  do  not  share  your  fears  for  him.  I  think  too 
well  of  him.  If  she  is  one  to  inspire  the  sacredncss  of  that 
union,  I  think  too  well  of  him.     It  is  impossible." 

The  lady  saw  one  thing  to  be  done. 

"  Call  her  to  you,"  she  said.  "  Have  her  with  you  at 
Raynham.  Recognize  her.  It  is  the  disunion  and  doubt 
that  so  confuses  him  and  driv^es  him  wild.  I  confess  to  you 
I  hoped  he  had  gone  to  her.  It  seems  not.  If  she  is  with 
you  his  way  will  be  clear.     Will  you  do  tliat  ?  " 

Science  is  notoriously  of  slow  movement.  Lady  Blandish's 
proposition  was  far  too  hasty  for  Sir  Austin.  Women,  rapid 
by  nature,  have  no  idea  of  science. 

"  We  shall  see  her  there  in  time,  Emmeline.  At  present 
let  it  be  between  me  and  my  son." 

He  spoke  loftily.  In  truth  it  offended  him  to  be  asked  to 
do  anything,  when  he  had  just  brought  himself  to  do  so  much. 

A  month  elapsed,  and  Richard  appeared  ou  the  scene. 

The  meeting  between  him  and  his  father  was  not  what  his 
father  had  expected,  and  had  crooned  over  in  the  Welsh 
mountains,  among  the  echoes  of  his  Aphorisms.  Richard 
shook  his  hand  respectfully,  and  inquired  after  his  health 
with  the  common  social  solicitude.  He  then  said  :  "  During 
your  absence,  sir,  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  without  consulting 
you,  to  do  something  in  which  you  are  more  deeply  concerned 
than  myself.  I  have  taken  upon  myself  to  iind  out  my 
mother  and  place  her  under  my  care.  I  trust  you  will  not 
think  I  have  done  wrong.     I  acted  as  I  thought  best." 

Sir  Austin  rcpb'ed  :  "  You  are  of  an  age,  Richard,  to  judgo 
for  yourself  in  such  a  case.  I  would  liave  you  simply  beware 
of  deceiving  yourself  in  imagining  tliat  you  considered  any 
one  but  youi-self  in  acting  as  you  did." 

"  I  have  not  deceived  myself,  sir,"  said  Richard,  and  the 
interview  was  ovei*.  Both  Iiated  an  exposure  of  the  feelings, 
and  in  that  buth  wei-e  .satisfied  :  but  the  baronet,  as  one  who 
loves,  hoped  and  looked  for  tones  indicative  of  trouble  and 
delight  in  the  deep  heart;    and  Richard  gave  hiiu  none  of 


410  TnE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

thoso.  The  yonnjf  man  did  not  evtii  face  him  ns  ho  BpoTco: 
if  tlioir  eyes  mot  by  chance,  Richard's  wore  dcGautiy  cold. 
His  whole  bcarinf^  was  changed. 

"  Til  is  rash  marriage  has  altered  him,"  said  the  very  jnst 
man  of  science  in  life  ;  and  that  meant :  "  it  has  debased  him." 

He  pursued  his  reflections.  "  I  see  in  him  the  desperate 
maturity  of  a  suddenly-ripened  nature:  and  but  for  my  faith 
that  good  work  is  never  lost,  what  should  I  think  of  the  toil 
of  my  years  ?  Lost,  perhaps  to  me!  lost  to  him!  It  may 
show  itself  in  his  children.' 

The  Philosopher,  we  may  conceive,  has  contentment  in 
benefiting  embryos  :  but  it  was  a  somewhat  bitter  prospect 
to  Sir  Austin.     Bitterly  he  felt  the  injury  to  himself. 

One  little  incident  spoke  well  of  Richard.  A  poor  woman 
called  at  the  hotel  while  he  was  missing.  The  baronet  saw 
her,  and  she  told  him  a  tale  that  threw  Christian  light  on 
one  part  of  Richard's  nature.  But  this  might  gratify  the 
father  in  Sir  Austin ;  it  did  not  touch  the  man  of  science. 
A  Feverel,  his  son,  would  not  do  less,  he  thought.  He  sat 
down  deliberately  to  study  his  son. 

No  definite  observations  enlightened  him.  Richard  ate  and 
d)"ank  ;  joked  and  laughed.  He  was  generally  before  Adi'ian 
in  calling  for  a  fresh  bottle.  He  talked  easily  of  current 
topics  ;  his  gaiety  did  not  sound  forced.  In  all  he  did,  never- 
theless, there  was  not  the  air  of  a  youth  who  sees  a  future 
before  him.  Sir  Austin  put  that  down.  It  might  be  care- 
lessness,  and  wanton  blood,  for  no  one  could  say  he  had  much 
on  his  mind.  The  man  of  science  was  not  reckoning  that 
Richard  also  might  have  learned  to  act  and  wear  a  mask. 
Dead  subjects — that  is  to  say,  people  not  on  their  guard — ho 
could  penetrate  and  dissect.  It  is  by  a  rare  chance,  as 
scientific  men  well  know,  that  one  has  an  opportunity  of 
examining  the  structure  of  the  living. 

However,  that  rare  chance  was  granted  to  Sir  Austin. 
They  were  engaged  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Doria  at  the  Foreys, 
and  walked  down  to  her  in  the  afternoon,  father  and  son  arm- 
in-arm,  Adrian  beside  them.  Previously  the  offended  father 
had  condescended  to  inform  his  son  that  it  would  shortly  be 
time  for  him  to  return  to  his  wdfe,  indicating  that  arrange- 
ments would  ultimately  be  ordered  to  receive  her  at  Rayn- 
ham.  Richard  had  replied  nothing ;  which  might  mean 
excess  of  gratitude,  or  hypocrisy  in  concealing  his  pleasure, 


glare's  DIARY.  41 1 

or  any  one  of  ths  thoiisand  shifts  by  which  gratified  human 
nature  expresses  itself  when  all  is  made  to  run  smooth  with 
it.  Now  Mrs.  Berry  had  her  surprise  ready  charged  for  the 
young  husband.  She  had  Lucy  in  her  own  house  waiting 
for  him.  Every  day  she  expected  him  to  call  and  be  over- 
come by  the  rapturous  surprise,  and  every  day,  knowing  his 
habit  of  frequenting  the  park,  she  marched  Lucy  thither, 
under  the  plea  that  Master  Richard,  whom  she  had  already 
christened,  should  have  an  airing. 

The  round  of  the  red  winter  sun  was  behind  the  bare 
Kensington  chestnuts,  when  these  two  parties  met.  Happily 
for  Lucy  and  the  hope  she  bore  in  her  bosom,  she  was  per- 
versely admiring  a  fair  horsewoman  galloping  by  at  the 
moment.  Mrs.  Berry  plucked  at  her  gown  once  or  twice,  to 
prepare  her  eyes  for  the  shock,  but  Lucy's  head  was  still 
half  averted,  and  thinks  Mrs.  Berry,  "  'Twon't  hurt  her  if 
she  go  into  his  arms  head  foremost."  They  were  close ; 
Mrs.  Berry  performed  the  bob  preliminary.  Bichard  held 
her  silent  with  a  terrible  face :  he  grasped  her  arm,  and  put 
her  behind  him.  Other  people  intervened  Lucy  saw 
nothing  to  account  for  Berry's  excessive  flatter.  Beiiy 
threw  it  on  the  air  and  some  bi-eakfast  bacon,  which,  she 
said,  she  knew  in  the  morning  while  she  ate  it,  was  bad  for 
the  bile,  and  which  probably  was  the  cause  of  her  bursting 
into  tears,  much  to  Lucy's  astonishment. 

•'  What  you  ate  makes  you  cry,  Mrs.  Berry  ?  " 

"  It's  all "  Mrs.  Berry  pressed  at  her  heart  and  leaned 

sideways,  "  it's  all  stomach,  my  dear.  Don't  ye  mind,"  aTid 
becoming  aware  of  her  unfashionable  behaviour,  she  trailed 
off  to  the  shelter  of  the  elms. 

"  You  have  a  singular  manner  with  old  ladies,''  said  Sir 
Austin  to  his  son,  after  Berry  had  been  swept  aside. 
"  Scarcely  courteous.  She  behaved  like  a  mad  woman,  cer- 
tainly.— Are  you  ill,  my  son  ?  " 

Richard  was  death-pale,  his  strong  form  smitten  through 
with  weakness.  The  baronet  sought  Adrian's  eye.  Adrian 
had  seen  Lucy  as  they  passed,  and  he  had  a  glinijise  of 
Richard's  countenance  while  disposing  of  Berry.  Had  Lucy 
recogiiiz(!d  them,  he  would  have  jrone  to  her  unhesitatingly. 
As  she  did  not,  he  thought  it  well,  under  the  circuinstaiiccH, 
to  leave  matters  as  they  wei-e.  He  answered  the  baroael'a 
look  with  a  shruj'. 


412  THE  OllDF.AL  OK  IlICIIAKD  FEVEREL. 

"  Aro  you  ill,  Richard  ?  "  Sir  Austin  again  asked  his  prn. 

"  Como  on,  sir  !  come  on  !  "  cried  Richard. 

His  father's  further  meditations,  as  they  stepped  briskly 
to  the  Forcys,  gave  poor  Berry  a  character  which  one  who 
liH'turcs  on  matrimony,  and  has  kissed  but  three  men  in  her 
life,  shrieks  to  licar  tlie  very  title  of. 

"  Richard  will  go  to  his  wife  to-morrow,"  Sir  Austin  said 
to  Adrian  some  time  before  they  Avent  in  to  dinner. 

Adrian  asked  him  if  he  had  chanced  to  see  a  young  fair, 
haired  lady  by  the  side  of  the  old  one  Richard  had  treated 
so  peculiarly ;  and  to  the  baronet's  acknowledgment  that 
he  remembered  to  have  observed  such  a  person,  Adrian  said: 
"  That  \\a;  his  wife,  sir." 

Sir  Austin  could  now  dissect  the  living  subject.  As  if  a 
bullet  had  torn  open  the  young  man's  skull,  and  some  blast 
of  battle  laid  his  palpitating  organization  bare,  he  watched 
every  motion  of  his  brain  and  his  heart;  and  with  the  grief 
aiid  terror  of  one  whose  mental  habit  was  ever  to  pierce  to 
extremes.  Not  altogether  conscious  that  he  had  hitherto 
played  with  life,  he  felt  that  he  was  suddenly  plunged  into 
the  stormful  reality  of  it.  He  projected  to  speak  plainly  to 
his  son  on  all  points  that  night. 

"  Richard  is  very  gay,"  Mrs.  Doria  whispered  her  brother. 

"  All  will  be  right  with  him  to-moiTOw,"  he  replied  ;  for 
the  game  had  been  in  his  hands  so  long,  so  long  had  he  been 
the  God  of  the  machine,  that  having  once  resolved  to  speak 
plainly  and  to  act,  he  was  to  a  certain  extent  secure,  bad  as 
the  thing  to  mend  might  be. 

"  I  notice  he  has  a  i-ather  wild  laugh — I  don't  exactly  like 
Lis  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Doria. 

"  You  will  see  a  change  in  him  to-morrow,"  the  man  of 
science  remarked. 

It  was  re^ei-A'ed  for  Mrs.  Doria  herself  to  experience  that 
change.  In  the  middle  of  the  dinner  a  telegraphic  message 
from  her  son-in-law,  worthy  John  Todhunter,  reached  the 
house,  stating  that  Clare  was  alarmingly  ill,  bidding  her 
come  instantly.  She  cast  about  for  some  one  to  accompany 
htr,  and  fixed  on  Richard.  Before  he  would  give  his  con- 
6cnt  for  Ri(,-lia7-d  to  go.  Sir  Austin  desired  to  speak  with  him 
apart,  and  in  that  interview  he  said  to  his  son :  "  My  dear 
Richard !  it  was  my  intention  that  wo  should  come  to  an 
UTidcrs landing  together  this  night.     But  the  time  is  short— 


clahe's  diaht.  413 

poor  Helen  cannot  spare  many  minutes.  Let  me  then  aay 
that  you  deceived  me,  and  that  I  forgive  you.  We  fix  our 
seal  on  the  past.  You  will  bring  your  wife  to  me  when  you 
return."  And  very  cheerfully  the  baronet  looked  down  on 
the  generous  future  he  thus  founded. 

"  Will  you  have  her  at  Raynham  at  once,  sir  ?"  said 
Richard. 

"  Yes,  my  son,  when  you  bring  her." 

"  Are  you  mocking  me,  sir  ?" 

"  Pray,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  ask  you  to  receive  her  at  once." 

"  Well !  the  delay  cannot  be  long.  I  do  not  apprehend 
that  you  will  be  kept  from  your  happiness  many  days." 

"I  think  it  will  be  some  time,  sir!  "  said  Richard,  sigh- 
ing deeply. 

"  And  what  mental  freak  is  this  that  can  induce  you  to 
postpone  it  and  play  with  your  first  duty  ?" 

"  What  is  my  first  duty,  sir  ?" 

*'  Since  you  are  married,  to  be  with  your  wife." 

"  I  have  heard  that  from  an  old  woman  called  Berry !  ** 
Baid  Richard  to  himself,  not  intending  irony. 

"  Will  you  receive  her  at  once  ?  "  he  asked  resolutely. 

The  baronet  was  clouded  by  his  son's  reception  of  his 
graciousness.  His  grateful  prospect  had  formerly  been 
Richard's  marriage — the  culmination  of  his  System.  Richard 
had  destroyed  his  participation  in  that.  He  now  looked  for 
a  pretty  scene  in  recompense  : — Richard  leading  up  his  wife 
to  him,  and  both  being  welcomed  by  him  paternally,  and  so 
held  one  ostentatious  minute  in  his  embrace. 

He  said :  "  Before  you  return,  I  demur  to  receiving 
her." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  replied  his  son,  and  stood  as  if  he  had 
spoken  all. 

"  Really  you  tempt  me  to  fancy  you  already  regret  your 
rash  proceeding!"  the  baronet  exclaimed;  and  the  next 
moment  it  pained  him  he  had  uttered  the  woixls,  Richard's 
eyes  Avero  so  sorrowfully  fierce.  It  ])ained  him,  but  ho 
divined  in  that  look  a  histoiy,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from 
glancing  acutely  and  asking  :  "  Do  you  ?  " 

"  Regret  it,  sir  ?"  The  question  aroused  one  of  those 
struggles  in  the  young  man's  breast  which  a  passionate 
etorm  of  tears  may  still,  and  which  sink    like  leaden   death 


414  THE  ORDEAL  OF  UICIIARD  FEVEREL, 

Into  the  Fonl  when  tears  come  not.  Eichaid's  eyes  had  tho 
light  of  the  desert. 

"Do  you?"  his  father  repeated.  'You  tempt  me — I 
almost  fear  you  do."  At  the  tlioiicrht — for  he  expresscil  his 
mind — the  pity  that  he  had  for  liicliard  was  not  pure  R'old. 

"Ask  me  what  I  think  of  her,  sir!  Ask  me  wliat  she  is! 
Ask  me  what  it  is  to  have  taken  one  of  God's  j)rccious  ancrels 
and  chained  her  to  misery !  Ask  me  what  it  is  to  have 
pluncred  a  sword  into  her  heart,  and  to  stand  over  her  and 
see  such  a  creature  bleeding  !  Do  I  regret  that  ?  Why,  yes, 
I  do  !  Wouhl  you  ?" 

His  eyes  flew  hard  at  his  father  under  the  ridge  of  his 
eyebrows. 

Sir  Austin  winced  and  reddened.  Did  ho  understand  ? 
There  is  ever  in  the  mind's  eye  a  certain  wilfulness.  We 
see  and  understand  ;  we  see  and  won't  understand. 

"  Tel]  me  why  you  passed  by  her  as  you  did  this  after- 
noon," he  said  gravely :  and  in  the  same  voice  Richaid 
answered:  "  I  passed  her  because  I  could  not  do  otherwise." 

"  Your  wnfe,  Richard  't" 

"  Yes  !  my  wife  !  " 

"  If  she  had  seen  you,  Richard  ?'* 

"  God  spared  her  that !" 

Mrs.  Doria,  bustling  in  practical  haste,  and  bearing 
Richard's  hat  and  greatcoat  in  her  energetic  hands,  cauie 
between  them  at  this  juncture.  Dimples  of  commisciation 
were  in  her  cheeks  while  she  kissed  her  brother's  perplexed 
forehead.  She  forgot  her  trouble  about  Clare,  deploring  hia 
fatuity. 

Sir  Austin  was  forced  to  let  his  son  depart.  As  of  old,  he 
took  counsel  with  Adiian,  and  the  wise  youth  was  soothing. 
*'  Somebody  has  kissed  him,  sir,  and  the  chaste  boy  can't  get 
over  it."  This  absurd  suggestion  did  more  to  appease  the 
baronet  than  if  Adrian  had  given  a  veritable  reasonable  key  to 
Richard's  conduct.  It  set  him  thinking  that  it  might  be  a 
prudi.sh  sti-ain  in  the  young  man's  mind,  due  to  the  System 
in  difficulties. 

"  I  may  have  been  wrong  in  one  thing,"  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  the  utmost  doubt  of  it.  "  I,  perhaps,  was  wrong  in 
allowing  him  so  much  liberty  during  his  probation." 

Adiian  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  had  distinctly  com« 
manded  it. 


Clare's  diary.  41  i 

"  Yes,  yes ;  tliat  is  on  me.*' 

His  was  an  order  of  mind  that  would  accept  the  mo^t 
burdensome  charges,  and  by  some  species  of  moral  usu,  v 
make  a  profit  out  of  them. 

Clare  was  little  talked  of.  Adrian  attributed  the  employ- 
ment of  the  telegraph  to  John  Todhunter's  uxorious  distress 
at  a  toothache,  or  possibly  the  first  symptoms  of  an  heir  to 
his  house. 

"  That  child's  mind  has  disease  in  it.  She  is  not  sound," 
said  the  baronet. 

On  the  door- step  of  the  hotel,  when  they  returned,  stood 
!Mrs.  Berry.  Her  wish  to  speak  a  few  words  with  the 
baronet  reverentially  communicated,  she  was  ushered 
upstairs  into  his  room. 

Mrs.  Berry  compressed  her  person  in  the  chair  she  was 
beci.oned  to  occupy. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  you  have  something  to  say,*'  observed  the 
baronet,  for  she  seemed  loth  to  commence. 

"  Wishin'  I  hadn't :  "  Mrs.  Berry  took  him  up,  and  mind- 
ful of  the  good  I'ule  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  pursued  :  "  I 
dare  say.  Sir  Austin,  you  don't  remember  me,  and  I  little 
thought  when  last  we  parted  our  meeting  'd  be  like  this. 
Twenty  year  don't  go  over  one  without  showin'  it,  no  more 
than  twenty  ox.  It's  a  might  o'  time, — twenty  year  I 
Leastways  not  quite  twenty,  it  ain't." 

"  Round  figures  are  best,"  Adrian  remarked 

"  In  them  round  figures  a  be-loved  son  have  growed  up,, 
and  got  himself  married!  "  said  Mrs.  Berry,  diving  straight 
into  the  case. 

Sir  Austin  then  learnt  that  he  had  before  him  the  culprit 
■who  had  assisted  his  son  in  that  venture.  It  was  a  stretch 
of  his  patience  to  hear  himself  addressed  on  a  family  matter, 
but  he  was  naturally  courteous. 

"He  came  to  my  house,  Sir  Austin,  a  stranger!  If 
twenty  year  alters  us  as  have  knowed  each  other  on  the 
earth,  how  must  they  alter  tlioy  that  we  parted  with  just 
come  from  heaven !  And  a  heavenly  babe  he  were !  se 
sweet !  se  strong  !  so  fa,t  !  " 

Adrian  laughed  aloud. 

Mis.  Berry  bumped  a  cuitsey  to  him  in  hor  chair,  con- 
tinuing :  "  I  wished  afore  I  S|)oke  to  say  how  thankful  am  I 
bound  to  be  for  my  pension  not  cut  short,  as  have  offended 


4  '.  (■>  Til  F,  ORPl'AL  OF  HICnARD  FEVEFEL. 

6o,  hut  that  I  know  Sir  Austin  Fcvcrcl,  Raynlinm  AM^f^y, 
nin't  one  o' thoiu  tliat  likes  to  hear  their  pood  ikecls  pum- 
TshcJ.  And  a  pension  to  me  now,  it's  somotliing  more  than 
it  were.  For  a  jicnsion  and  pretty  rosy  cheeks  in  a  maid, 
which  I  was — that's  a  bait  many  a  man  '11  bite,  that  won't 
so  a  forsaken  wife  !  " 

"  If  you  will  speak  to  the  point,  ma'am,  I  will  listen  to 
you,"  the  baronet  interrupted  her. 

"  It's  the  bcginnin'  that's  the  worst,  and  that's  over, 
thank  the  Lord !  So  I'll  speak,  Sir  Austin,  and  say  my  say: 
— Lord  speed  me !  Believin'  our  idees  o'  matrimony  to  be 
sim'lar,  then,  I'll  say,  once  manned — married  for  life  1  Yes ! 
I  don't  even  like  widows.  For  I  can't  stop  at  the  grave. 
Not  at  the  tomb  I  can't  stop.  My  husband's  my  husband, 
and  if  I'm  a  body  at  the  Resurrection,  I  say,  speaking 
humldy,  my  Ben-y  is  the  husband  o'  my  body  ;  and  to  tliink 
of  two  claimin'  of  me  then — it  makes  me  hot  all  over.  Such 
is  my  notion  of  that  state  'tween  man  and  woman.  No 
givin'  in  marriage,  o'  course  I  know,  and  if  so  I'm  single." 

The  baronet  suppressed  a  smile.  "  Really,  my  good 
woman,  you  wander  very  much." 

"  Beggin'  pardon,  Sir  Austin ;  but  I  has  my  point  before  me 
all  the  same,  and  I'm  comin'  to  it.  Ac-knowledgin'  our  error, 
it's  done,  and  bein'  done,  it's  writ  aloft.  Oh  !  if  you  ony  knew 
what  a  sweet  young  creature  she  be  !  Indeed  'taint  all  of 
humble  birth  that's  unworthy,  Sir  Austin.  And  she  got  her 
idees,  too.  She  read  History  !  She  talk  that  sensible  as 
would  surprise  ye.  But  for  all  that  slie's  a  prey  to  the  artful 
o  'men — unpertected.  And  it's  a  young  marriage  —  but 
there's  no  fear  for  her,  as  far  as  she  go.  The  fear's  t'other 
way.  There's  that  in  a  man — at  the  commencement — 
which  make  of  him  Lord  knows  what!  if  you  any  way 
interferes :  whereas  a  woman  bides  qniet.  It's  consolation 
catch  her,  which  is  what  we  mean  by  seducin'.  Whereas  a 
man — he's  a  savage  !" 

Sir  Austin  turned  his  face  to  Adrian,  who  was  listening 
■with  huge  delight. 

"  Well  ma'am,  I  see  j'ou  have  something  in  your  mind,  if 
you  would  only  come  to  it  quickly." 

"  Then  here's  my  point,  Sir  Austin.  I  say  you  bred  him 
GO  as  there  ain't  another  young  gentleman  like  him  in 
England,  and  proud  lie  make  me.     And  as  for  her,  I'll  risk 


Clare's  diary.  417 

payin — it's  clone,  and  no  harra — yon  might  search  England 
tlirough,  and  nowhere  will  ye  find  a  maid  that's  his  match 
like  his  own  wife.  Then  there  they  be.  Are  they  together 
as  should  be?  O  Lord  no!  Months  they  been  divided. 
Then  she  all  lonely  and  exposed,  I  went,  and  fetched  her 
out  of  seducers'  ways — which  they  may  say  what  they  like, 
but  the  inn'cent  is  most  open  to  when  they're  healthy  and 
confidin' — I  fetch  her,  and — the  liberty — boxed  her  safe  in 
my  o^vn  house.  So  much  for  that  sweet !  That  you  may 
do  with  women.  But  it's  him — Mr.  Richard — I  avt  bold,  I 
know^  but  there — I'm  in  for  it,  and  the  Lord  '11  help  me  ! 
It's  him,  Sir  Austin,  in  this  gi'eat  metropolis,  warm  from  a 
young  mai-riage.  It's  him,  and — I  say  nothin'  of  her,  and 
how  sweet  she  bears  it,  and  it's  eating  her  at  a  time  when 
Natur'  should  have  no  other  trouble  but  the  one  that's  goin' 
on — it's  him,  and  I  ask — so  bold — shall  there  —  anil  a 
Christian  gentleman  his  father — shall  thei'e  be  a  tug  'tween 
him  as  a  son  and  him  as  a  husband — soon  to  be  somethin' 
else  ?  I  speak  bold  out — I'd  have  sons  obey  ther  fathers, 
but  the  priest's  words  spoke  over  him,  which  they're  now  in 
my  ears,  I  say  I  ain't  a  donht  on  earth — I'm  sure  there  ain't 
one  in  heaven — which  dooty  s  the  holier  of  the  two." 

Sir  Austin  heard  her  to  an  end.  Their  views  on  the 
junction  of  the  sexes  were  undoubtedly  akin.  To  be  lec- 
tured on  his  prime  subject,  however,  was  slightly  disagree- 
able, and  to  be  obliged  mentally  to  assent  to  this  old  lady's 
doctine  was  rather  humiliating,  when  it  could  not  be  averred 
that  he  had  latterly  followed  it  out.  He  sat  cross-legged 
and  silent,  a  finger  to  his  temple. 

"  One  gets  so  addle-pated  thinkin'  many  things,"  said 
Mrs.  Berry,  simply.  "  That's  why  we  see  wonder  clever 
people  al'ays  goin'  wrong — to  my  mind.  I  think  it's  al'ays 
the  plan  in  a  dielemmer  to  pray  God  and  walk  forward." 

The  keen-witted  soft  woman  was  tracking  the  bai-onet's 
thoughts,  and  she  had  absolutely  ran  him  down  and  taken 
an  explanation  out  of  his  mouth,  by  which  Mrs.  Berry  was 
to  have  been  informed  that  he  had  acted  from  a  principle 
of  his  own,  and  devolved  a  wisdom  she  could  not  be  expected 
to  comprehend. 

Of  course  he  became  advised  immediately  that  it  would  bo 
•waste  of  time  to  direct  such  an  explanation  to  her  inferior 
capacity. 

2b 


4  18  THE  ORPEAI,  OF  RICIIARP  FEVERKL 

He  crave  her  liis  liaiul,  sayincr,  "  My  son  lias  gniie  ont  of 
town  to  see  liis  t-onsin  \\  lio  is  ill.  He  will  i-eturn  in  two  or 
three  days,  and  then  they  will  both  come  to  nie  at  iiaynliam." 

!Mrs.  Berry  took  the  tips  of  his  finii^ers,  and  went  half-way 
to  the  floor  ])erpendicularly.  "  He  pass  her  like  a  stranger 
in  the  park  this  evenin',"  she  faltered. 

"  Ah  ■?"  said  the  baronet.  "  Yes,  well !  they  will  be  at 
Raynham  before  the  week  is  over," 

Mrs.  Berry  was  not  quite  sati.sfied.  "  Not  of  his  own 
accord  he  pass  that  sweet  young  wife  of  his  like  a  stranger 
this  day,  Sir  Austin  !" 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  intrude  further,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  BeiTV  bobbed  her  bunch  of  a  body  out  of  the  room. 

•'  All's  well  as  ends  well,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  It's  bad 
inquirin'  too  close  among  men.  We  must  take  'em  some- 
thin'  like  Providence — as  they  come.  Thank  heaven !  1 
kep'  back  the  baby." 

In  !Mrs.  Berry's  eyes  the  baby  was  the  victorious  reserve. 

Adrian  asked  his  chief  what  he  thought  of  that  specimen 
of  woman. 

"  I  think  I  have  not  met  a  better  in  my  life,"  said  the 
baronet,  mingling  praise  and  sarcasm. 

Clare  lies  in  her  bed  as  placid  as  in  the  days  when  she 
breathed  ;  her  white  hands  stretched  their  length  along  the 
she2ts,  at  peace  from  head  to  feet.  She  needs  iron  no  more. 
Richard  is  face  to  face  with  death  for  the  first  time.  He 
sees  the  sculpture  of  clay — the  spark  gone. 

Clare  gave  her  mother  the  welcome  of  the  dead.  This  child 
would  have  spoken  nothing  but  kind  commonplaces  had  she 
been  alive.  She  was  dead,  and  none  knew  her  malady.  On 
her  foujth  finger  were  two  wedding-rings. 

When  hours  of  weeping  had  silenced  the  mother's  anguish, 
she,  for  some  comfort  she  saw  in  it,  pointed  out  that  stiange 
thing  to  Richard,  speaking  low  in  the  chamber  of  the  dead; 
and  then  he  learnt  that  it  was  his  own  lost  ring  Clare  woie 
in  the  two  worlds.  He  learnt  from  her  husband  Clare's  last 
request  had  been  that  neither  of  the  rings  should  be  removed. 
She  had  wiitten  it ;  she  would  not  speak  it. 

"I  beg  of  my  husband,  and  all  kind  people  who  may  have 
the  caie  of  me  between  this  and  the  grave,  to  bury  me  with 
my  hands  untouched." 


Clare's  diary.  419 

The  tracing  of  the  words  sliowed  the  bodily  tornl^nt  she 
ivas  suitering,  as  she  wrote  them  on  a  scrap  of  paper  found 
beside  her  pillow. 

In  wonder  as  the  dim  idea  grew  from  the  waving  of  Clare's 
dead  hand,  Richard  paced  the  house,  and  hung  about  the 
awful  room  ;  di-eading  to  enter  it,  reluctant  to  quit  it.  The 
secret  Clare  had  buried  while  she  lived,  arose  with  her 
death.  He  saw  it  play  like  flame  a'^ross  her  marble  features. 
The  memory  of  her  voice  was  like  a  knife  at  his  nerves.  His 
coldness  to  her  started  up  accusingly :  her  meekness  was 
bitter  blame. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  her  mother  came  to  him 
in  his  bedroom,  with  a  face  so  white  he  asked  himself  if 
aught  worse  could  happen  to  a  mother  than  the  loss  of  her 
child.  Choking  she  said  to  him,  "  Read  this,"  and  thrust  a 
leather-bound  pocket-book  trembling  in  his  hand.  She 
would  not  breathe  to  him  what  it  was.  She  entreated  him 
not  to  open  it  before  her. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  what  you  think.  John 
must  not  hear  of  it.  I  have  nobody  to  consult  but  you — 0 
Richard  !  " 

"  My  Diary  "  was  written  in  the  round  hand  of  Clare's 
childhood  on  the  first  page.  The  tir^  name  his  eye  encoun- 
tered was  his  own. 

"  Richard's  fourteenth  birthday.  I  have  worked  him  a 
purse  and  put  it  under  his  pillow,  because  he  is  going  to 
have  plenty  of  money.  He  does  not  notice  me  now  because 
he  has  a  friend  now,  and  he  is  ugly,  but  Richard  is  not,  and 
never  will  be." 

The  occui-rences  of  that  day  were  subsequently  recorded, 
and  a  childish  prayer  to  God  for  him  set  down.  Step  by 
step  he  saw  her  growing  mind  in  his  history.  As  she  ad- 
vanced in  years  she  began  to  look  back,  and  made  much  of 
little  trivial  remembrances,  all  bearing  upon  him. 

"  We  went  into  the  fields  and  gathered  cowslips  together, 
and  pelted  each  other,  and  I  told  him  he  used  to  call  them 
'coals-sleeps'  when  he  was  a  baby,  and  he  was  angry  at 
my  telling  him,  for  he  does  not  like  to  be  told  he  was  ever  a 
baby." 

He  remembered  the  incident,  and  remembered  his  stupid 
Bcorii    of  her  meek  affection.     Little  Clare !  how  she  lived 

2  e2 


420  TTTE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnART)  FEVERRL. 

bcftiiT  h'\m  in  her  white  drrssand  pink  rihhons,  and  soft  dark 
eves  I      Ujtstjiirs  she  wiis  lyinu^  (had.      He  read  on  : 

"  Mama  savs  (here  is  no  one  in  the  worhl  like  Richaid, 
and  1  am  sure  there  is  not,  not  in  the  whole  world,  lie. says 
ho  is  fj^oini,'  to  he  a  g^reat,  (leneral  and  poitig  to  the  wars.  If 
he  does  I  shall  dress  myself  as  a  boy  and  go  after  him,  and 
ho  will  not  know  me  till  I  am  wounded.  Oh  1  ])iay  he  will 
never,  never  be  wounded.  I  wonder  what  I  should  feel  if 
Kichard  was  ever  to  die." 

Ujistairs  Clare  was  lying  dead. 

"  Lady  IJIandish  said  tliere  was  a  likeness  between  Richard 
and  me.  Richard  said  I  ho])e  I  do  not  hang  down  my  head 
as  she  does.  He  is  angi-y  with  me  because  I  do  not  look 
peo])le  in  the  face  and  speak  out,  but  I  know  I  am  not  look- 
ing after  earth-worms." 

Yes.  He  had  told  her  that.  A  shiver  seized  him  at  the 
recollection. 

Then  it  came  to  a  period  when  the  words  :  "  Richard 
kissed  me,"  stood  by  themselves,  and  marked  a  day  in  her  life. 

Afterwards  it  was  solemnly  discovered  that  Richard  wrote 
poetry.  He  read  one  of  his  old  forgotten  compositions 
penned  when  he  had  that  ambition. 

"  Thy  truth  to  me  is  truer 

'j'haii  horse,  or  do":,  or  blade  { 
Thy  vows  to  ine  are  fewer 
Than  ever  maiden  made. 

Thou  stepjiest  from  thy  splendour 

To  make  my  life  a  song  : 
My  hosoiii  shall  be  tender 

As  thine  has  risen  strong." 

All  the  verses  were  transcribed.  "  It  is  he  who  is  the 
humble  knight,"  Clare  explained  at  the  close,  "  and  his  lady 
is  a  Queen.  Any  Queen  would  throw  her  crown  away  for 
him." 

It  came  to  that  period  when  Clare  left  Raynham  with  her 
mother. 

"  Richard  was  not  sorry  to  lose  me.  He  only  loves  boys 
and  men.  Something  tells  me  I  shall  never  see  Raynham 
again.  He  was  di-essed  in  blue.  He  said  Good  bye,  Clare, 
and  kissed  me  on  the  cheek.  Richard  never  kisses  me  on 
the  mouth.  He  did  not  know  I  went  to  his  bed  and  kissed 
hira  while  he  was  asleep.     He  sleeps  with  one  arm  under  hia 


Clare's  diary.  421 

head,  and  tte  otlier  out  on  the  bed.  I  moved  away  a  bit  of 
his  hair  that  was  over  his  eyes.  T  wanted  to  cut  it.  I  have 
one  piece.  I  do  not  let  anybody  see  I  am  unhappy,  not  even 
mama.  She  says  I  want  iron.  I  am  sure  I  do  not.  I  like 
to  write  my  name.  Clare  Doria  Forey.  Richard's  is  Richai-d 
Doria  Feverel." 

His  breast  rose  convulsively.  Clare  Doria  Forey !  He 
knew  the  music  of  that  name.  He  had  heard  it  somewhere. 
It  sounded  faint  and  mellow  now  behind  the  hills  of  death. 

He  could  not  read  for  tears.  It  was  midnight.  The  hour 
seemed  to  belong  to  her.  The  awful  stillness  and  the  dark- 
ness were  Clare's.  Clare's  voice  clear  and  cold  from  the 
grave  possessed  it. 

Painfully,  with  blinded  eyes,  he  looked  over  the  breathless 
pages.  She  spoke  of  his  marriage,  and  her  finding  the 
ring. 

"  I  knew  it  was  his.  I  knew  he  was  going  to  be  married 
that  morning.  I  saw  him  stand  by  the  altar  when  they 
laughed  at  breakfast.  His  wife  must  be  so  beautiful ! 
Richard's  wife !  Perhaps  he  will  love  me  better  now  he 
is  married.  Mama  says  they  must  be  separated.  That  is 
shameful.  If  I  can  help  him  I  will.  I  pray  so  that  he  may 
be  happy.  I  hope  God  hears  poor  sinners'  prayers.  I  am 
very  sinful.  Nobody  knows  it  as  I  do.  They  say  I  am 
good,  but  I  know.  When  I  look  on  the  ground  I  am  not 
looking  after  earthworms,  as  he  said.  Oh,  do  forgive  me, 
God !" 

Then  she  spoke  of  her  own  marriage,  and  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  obey  her  mother.     A  blank  in  the  Diary  ensued. 

"  I  have  seen  Richard.  Richard  despises  me,"  was  the 
next  entry. 

Bnt  now  as  he  read  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  the  delicate 
feminine  handwriting  like  a  black  thread  drew  on  his  soul 
to  one  terrible  conclusion. 

"  I  cannot  live.  Richard  despises  me.  I  cannot  bear  the 
touch  of  my  fingers  or  the  sight  of  my  face.  Oh  !  I  under- 
stand him  noAv.  He  should  not  have  kissed  mo  so  that  last 
time.     I  wished  to  die  while  his  mouth  was  on  mine." 

Further:  "I  have  no  escape.  Richard  said  ho  would  die 
rather  than  endure  it.  I  know  he  would.  Wliy  should  T  be 
afraid  to  do  what  he  would  do?  I  think  if  my  husband 
whipped  me  I  could  bear  it  better.     He  is  so  kind,  and  iriea 


4"_''J  THE  ORDEAL  OF  IJirilAUI)  FEVEREL. 

to  make  me  cheerful.  He  will  soon  be  very  unhappy.  I 
pray  to  Ciod  lialf  the  i.i^'ht.  I  seem  to  bo  loKiuy;  si^lit  of 
Uim  the  more  I  pray." 

Richard  laid  the  book  open  on  the  table.  Phantom  sur<je3 
seemed  to  be  mounting  and  travelling  for  his  brain.  Had 
Clare  taken  hi.s  wild  words  in  earnest  ?  Did  she  lie  there 
dead — he  shrouded  the  thought. 

Ue  wrapped  the  thoughts  in  shrouds,  but  he  was  again 
reading. 

"  A  quarter  to  one  o'clock.  I  shall  not  be  alive  this  time 
to-morrow.  I  shall  never  see  Richard  now.  I  dreamed  last 
night  we  were  in  the  fields  together,  and  he  walked  with  his 
arm  round  my  waist.  We  were  childi-en,  but  I  thought 
we  were  married,  and  I  showed  him  I  wore  his  ring,  and 
he  said  if  you  always  wear  it,  Clare,  you  are  as  good  as 
my  wife.  Then  I  made  a  vow  to  wear  it  for  ever  and  over. 
...  It  is  not  mama's  fault.  She  does  not  think  as  Richard 
and  I  do  of  these  things.  He  is  not  a  coward,  nor  am  I. 
He  hates  cowards. 

"  I  have  written  to  his  father  to  make  him  happy.  Per- 
haps when  I  am  dead  he  will  hear  what  I  say. 

"  I  heard  just  now  Richard  call  distinctly — Clari,  come 
out  to  me.  Surely  he  has  not  gone.  I  am  going  I  know  not 
where.     I  cannot  think.     I  am  very  cold." 

The  words  were  written  larger,  and  staggered  towards  the 
close,  as  if  her  hand  had  lost  mastery  over  the  pen. 

"  I  can  only  remember  Richard  now  a  boy.  A  little  boy 
and  a  big  boy.  I  am  not  sui'e  now  of  his  voice.  I  can  only 
reinember  certain  words.  '  Clari,'  and  '  Don  Ricardo,'  and 
his  laugh.  He  used  to  be  full  of  fun.  Once  we  laughed  all 
day  together  tumbling  in  the  hay.  Then  he  had  a  friend, 
and  began  to  write  poetry,  and  be  proud.  If  I  had  mairied 
a  young  man  he  would  have  forgiven  me,  but  I  should  not 
have  been  happier.  I  must  have  died.  God  never  looks  on 
me. 

"  It  is  past  two  o'clock.  The  sheep  are  bleating  outside. 
It  must  be  very  cold  in  the  ground.     Good-bye,  Richard." 

With  his  name  it  began  and  ended.  Even  to  herself 
Clare  was  not  over-communicative.  The  book  was  slender, 
yet  her  nineteen  years  of  existence  left  half  the  number  of 
pages  white. 

Those  last  words  drew  him  ii'resistibly  to  gaze  on  her. 


CLARE'S  DIARY.  423 

There  she  lay,  the  same  impassive  Clare.  For  a  moment  he 
wondered  she  had  not  moved — to  him  she  had  become  so 
different.  She  who  had  just  filled  his  ears  with  strange 
tidings — it  was  not  possible  to  think  her  dead !  She  seemed 
to  have  been  speaking  to  him  all  through  his  life.  His 
image  was  on  that  still  heart. 

He  dismissed  the  night-watchers  from  the  room,  and  re- 
mained with  her  alone,  till  the  sense  of  death  oppressed  him, 
and  then  the  shock  sent  him  to  the  window  to  look  for  sky 
and  stars.  Behind  a  low  broad  pine,  hung  with  frosty  mist, 
he  heard  a  bell-wether  of  the  flock  in  the  silent  fold.  Death 
in  life  it  sounded. 

The  mother  found  him  praying  at  the  foot  of  Clare's  bed. 
She  knelt  by  his  side,  and  they  prayed,  and  their  joint  sobs 
shook  their  bodies,  but  neither  of  them  shed  many  tears. 
They  held  a  dark  unspoken  secret  in  common.  They  prayed 
God  to  forgive  her. 

Clare  was  bui-ied  in  the  family  vault  of  the  Todhunters. 
Her  mother  breathed  no  wish  to  have  her  lying  at 
Lobourne. 

After  the  funeral,  what  they  alone  upon  earth  knew 
brought  them  together. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  "  the  worst  is  over  for  me.  I  have 
no  one  to  love  but  you,  dear.  We  have  all  been  fighting 
against  God,  and  this  .  .  .  Richard  !  you  will  come  with 
me,  and  be  united  to  your  wife,  and  spare  my  brother  what 
I  suffer." 

He  answered  the  broken  spirit :  "I  have  killed  one.  She 
sees  me  as  I  am.  I  cannot  go  with  you  to  my  wife,  because 
]  am  not  worthy  to  touch  her  hand,  and  were  I  to  go,  I 
should  do  this  to  silence  my  self-contempt.  Go  you  to  hur, 
and  when  she  asks  of  me,  say  I  have  a  death  upon  my  hcjad 

that No !  say  that  I  am  abroad,  seeking  for  that  which 

shall  cleanse  me.  If  I  find  it  I  shall  come  to  claim  her  If 
not,  God  help  us  all !  " 

She  had  no  force  to  contest  his  solemn  words,  or  stay 
him,  and  he  went  forth. 


424  TOE  OliDEAL  OP  RICHAED  FEVEKEU 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

AUSTIN  RETURNS. 

A  MAN  -u'ith  a  beard  saluted  tlie  wise  youth  Adrian  in  tlio 
full  blaze  of  Piccadilly  "with  a  clap  on  the  shoulder.  Adi-ian 
glanced  leisurely  behind. 

"  Do  you  want  to  try  my  nerves,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I'm 
not  a  man  of  fashion,  ha})pily,  or  you  would  have  struck  the 
seat  of  them  : — vital  !     How  are  you  ?  " 

Tliat  was  his  welcome  to  Austin  Wentworth  after  his  long 
absence. 

Austin  took  his  arm,  and  asked  for  news  with  the  hunger 
of  one  who  had  been  in  the  wilderness  five  years. 

"  The  Whigs  have  given  up  the  ghost,  my  dear  Austin. 
The  free  Briton  is  to  receive  Liberty's  pearl,  the  Ballot. 
The  Aristocracy  has  had  a  cycle's  notice  to  quit.  The 
Tklonarchy  and  old  Madeira  are  going  out ;  Demos  and  Cape 
wines  are  coming  in.  They  call  it  Reform.  So,  you  see, 
your  absence  has  worked  wonders.  Depai-t  for  another  five 
years,  and  you  will  return  to  ruined  stomachs,  cracked 
sconces,  general  u})set,  and  an  equality  made  perfect  by 
universal  prostration." 

Austin  indulged  him  in  a  laugh.  "  I  want  to  hear  about 
ourselves.     How  is  old  Ricky?" 

"  You  know  of  his — what  do  they  call  it  when  greenhorns 
are  licensed  to  jump  into  the  milkpails  of  dairymaids  ? — a 
vei-y  charming  little  woman  she  makes,  by  the  way — pre- 
sentable !  quite  old  Anacreon's  rose  in  milk.  Well !  every- 
body thought  the  System  must  die  of  it.  Not  a  bit.  It 
continued  to  flourish  in  spite.  It's  in  a  consumption  now, 
though — emaciated,  lean,  raw,  spectral !  I've  this  morning 
escaped  from  Raynham  to  avoid  the  sight  of  it.  I  have 
brought  our  genial  uncle  Hippias  to  town — a  delightful 
companion !  I  said  to  him  :  '  We've  had  a  fine  Spring.' 
Ugh  !'  he  answers,  'there's  a  time  ■vAlien  you  come  to  think 
the  Spring  old.'  You  should  have  heard  how  he  trained  out 
the  'old.'  I  felt  something  like  decay  in  my  sap  just  to 
hear  him.  In  the  prize-fight  of  life,  my  dear  Austin,  our 
uncle  Hippias  has  been  unfairly  hit  below  the  belt.  Let's 
guard  ourselves  tliei'C,  and  go  and  order  dinner." 

"But  wlicre's  Kicky  now,  and  what  is  he  doing?"  said  Austin. 


AUSTIN  RETURNS.  425 

"  Ast  what  he  has  done.  The  miraculous  boy  has  gone 
and  got  a  baby  !" 

"  A  child  ?  Richard  has  one  ?"  Austin's  clear  eyes  shone 
with  pleasure. 

"  I  suppose  it's  not  common  among  your  tropical  savages. 
He  has  one :  one  as  big  as  two.  'Tis  that  has  been  the 
death-blow  to  the  System.  It  bore  the  marriage — the  baby 
was  too  much  for  it.  Could  it  swallow  the  baby,  't  would 
live.  She,  the  wonderful  woman,  has  produced  a  large  boy. 
I  assure  you  it's  quite  amusing  to  see  the  System  opening  iis 
mouth  every  hour  of  the  day,  trying  to  gulp  him  down, 
aware  that  it  would  be  a  consummate  cure,  or  a  happy 
release." 

By  degrees  Austin  learnt  the  baronet's  proceedings,  and 
smiled  sadly. 

"  How  has  Ricky  turned  out  ?"  he  asked.  "  What  sort  of 
a  character  has  he  ?" 

"  The  poor  boy  is  ruined  by  his  excessive  anxiety  about  it. 
Character  ?  he  has  the  character  of  a  bullet  with  a  treble 
charge  of  powder  behind  it.  Enthusiasm  is  the  powder. 
That  boy  could  get  up  an  enthusiasm  for  the  maiden  days 
of  Ops !  He  was  going  to  reform  the  world,  after  your 
fashion,  Austin, —  you  have  something  to  answer  for.  Unfor- 
tunately he  began  with  the  feminine  side  of  it.  Cupid  proud 
of  PhcBbus  newly  slain,  or  Pluto  wishing  to  people  his 
kingdom,  if  you  like,  put  it  into  the  soft  head  of  one  of  the 
guileless  grateful  creatures  to  kiss  him  for  his  good  woz'k. 
Oh,  horror:  he  never  expected  that.  Conceive  the  System 
in  the  flesh,  and  you  have  our  Richard.  The  consequence 
is,  that  this  male  Peri  refuses  to  enter  his  Paradise,  though 
the  gates  are  open  tur  him,  the  trumpets  blow,  and  the  fair 
unspotted  one  awaits  hixn  fruitful  within.  We  heard  of  him 
last  that  he  was  trying  the  German  waters — preparatory  to 
his  undei'taking  the  release  of  Italy  from  the  subjugation  of 
the  Teuton.  Let's  hope  thcy']l  wash  him.  He  is  in  the 
company  of  Lady  Judith  Felle — your  old  friend,  the  ardent 
female  Radical  who  married  the  deci-efjit  lord  to  carry  out 
her  princij)les.  They  always  marry  English  lords,  or  foreign 
pi-inces.     I  admire  their  tactics." 

"Judith  is  bad  for  him  in  such  a  state.  I  like  her,  but 
she  was  always  too  sentimental,"  said  Austin. 

"  Suniiuient   made  her  nia;-ry  the  old  lord,  I  suppose  ?     7 


426  TIIK  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

like  her  for  her  scntimont,  Austin.  Sentimental  peoj>lc  are 
sure  to  live  lonrj  and  die  fat.  'Tis  feeling  that's  the  slayer, 
coz.  Sentiment !  'tis  the  cajolery  of  existence :  the  soft 
bloom  which  whoso  wcarcth,  he  or  she  is  enviable.  Would 
that  I  had  more  !" 

"  You're  not  much  changed,  Adrian." 

"  I'm  not  a  Radical,  Austin." 

Further  inquiries,  responded  to  in  Adrian's  figurative 
speech,  instructed  Austin  that  the  baronet  was  waiting  for 
his  son,  in  a  posture  of  statuesque  offended  paternity,  before 
he  would  receive  his  daughter-in-law  and  grandson.  That 
was  what  Adrian  meant  by  the  efforts  of  the  System  to 
swallow  the  baby. 

"  We're  in  a  tangle,"  said  the  wise  youth.  "  Time  will 
extricate  us,  I  presume,  or  what  is  the  venerable  signor  good 
for  ?" 

Austin  mused  some  minutes,  and  asked  for  Lucy's  placo 
of  residence. 

"  We'll  go  to  her  by  and  by,"  said  Adrian. 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  her  now,"  said  Austin. 

"  Well,  we'll  go  and  order  the  dinner  first,  coz." 

"  Give  me  her  address." 

"  Really,  Austin,  you  carry  matters  with  too  long  a  beard," 
Adrian  objected.  "  Don't  you  care  what  you  eat  r"  he  roared 
hoarsely,  looking  humourously  hurt.  "  I  daresay  not.  A  slice 
out  of  him  that's  handy — sauce  du  ciel !  Go,  batten  on  the 
baby,  cannibal.     Dinner  at  seven." 

Adi-ian  gave  him  his  own  address,  and  Lucy's,  and  strolled 
off  to  do  the  better  thing. 

Overnight  Mrs.  Berry  had  observed  a  long  stranger  in  her 
tea-cup.  Posting  him  on  her  fingers  and  starting  him  with  a 
smack,  he  had  vaulted  lightly  and  thereby  indicated  that  he 
was  positively  coming  the  next  day.  She  forgot  him  in  the 
bustle  of  her  duties  and  the  absorption  of  her  faculties  in 
thoughts  of  the  incomparable  stranger  Lucy  had  presented 
to  the  world,  till  a  knock  at  the  street-door  reminded  her. 
"  There  he  is  !  "  she  cried,  as  she  ran  to  open  to  him. 
"  There's  my  stranger  come  !  "  Never  was  a  woman's  faith 
in  omens  so  justified.  The  stranger  desired  to  see  Mrs. 
Richard  Feverel.  He  said  his  name  was  Mr.  Austin  Went- 
worth.  Mrs.  Berry  clasped  her  hands,  exclaiming,  "  Come 
at  last!  "  and  ran  bolt  out  of  tbe  house  to  look  up  and  down 


AUSTIN  RETURNS.  427 

the  street.  Presently  she  returned  with  many  excuses  for 
her  rudeness,  saying :  "  I  'xpected  to  see  her  comin'  houiu, 
Mr.  Wentworth.  Every  day  twice  a  day  she  go  out  to  give 
her  blessed  angel  an  airing.  No  leavin'  the  child  with 
nursemaids  for  her  !  She  is  a  mother !  and  good  milk,  too, 
thank  the  Lord !  though  her  heart's  se  low." 

Indoors  Mrs.  Berry  stated  who  she  was,  related  the 
history  of  the  young  couple,  and  her  participation  in  it,  and 
admired  the  beard.  "  Though  I'd  swear  you  don't  wear  it 
for  ornament,  now ! "  she  said,  having  in  the  first  impulse 
designed  a  stroke  at  man's  vanity. 

Ultimately  Mrs.  Berry  spoke  of  the  family  complication, 
and  with  dejected  head  and  joined  hands  threw  out  dark 
hints  about  Kichard. 

While  Austin  was  giving  his  cheerfuller  views  of  the  case 
Lucy  came  in,  preceding  the  baby. 

"  I  am  Austin  Wentworth,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 
They  read  each  other's  faces,  these  two,  and  smiled  kinship. 

"  Your  name  is  Lucy  ?  " 

She  affirmed  it  softly. 

"  And  mine  is  Austin,  as  you  know." 

Mrs.  Berry  allowed  time  for  Lucy's  charms  to  subdue  hini, 
and  presented  Richard's  representative,  who,  seeing  a  new 
face,  suffered  himself  to  be  contemplated  before  he  com- 
menced crying  aloud,  and  knocking  at  the  doors  of  Nature 
for  something  that  was  due  to  him. 

"  Ain't  he  a  lusty  darlin'  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Berry.  "  Ain't  hw 
like  his  own  father  ?  There  can't  be  no  doubt  about  zoo, 
zoo  pitty  })et.  Look  at  his  fists.  Ain't  he  got  passion  ?  Ain't 
he  a  splendid  roarer  ?  Oh!"  and  she  went  off  rapturously 
into  baby-language. 

A  fine  boy,  certainly.  Mrs.  Berry  exhibited  his  legs  for 
farther  proof,  desiring  Austin's  confirmation  as  to  their 
being  dumplings. 

Lucy  murmured  a  word  of  excuse,  and  bore  the  splendid 
roarei-  out  of  the  room. 

"  She  might  'a  done  it  here,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "  There's 
no  prettier  sight,  I  say.  If  her  dear  husband  could  but  see 
that!  He's  off  in  his  heroics — he  want  to  be  doin'  all  sorts 
o'  things  :  I  say  he'll  never  do  anything  gi-ander  than  that 
baby.  You  should  'a  seen  her  uncle  over  that  baby — he 
came  here,  for  I  said,  you  shall  see  your  own  fam'ly,  my 


428  THE  ORPEAL  OP  RICHARD  FEVEREL- 

doar,  aru\  so  she  thinks.  He  come,  and  ho  laughed  over  that 
baby  in  tlie  joy  of  his  'ai-t,  poo'  man  !  he  cried,  he  did.  You 
shouhl  see  tliat  Mr.  Thompson,  Mv.  Wentworth — a  friend  o* 
Mr  Richard's,  and  a  very  tnodest-mindetl  youni''  gentleman 
— he  worships  her  in  his  innocence.  It's  a  sight  to  see  him 
with  tliat  baby.  My  belief  is  he's  unliappy  'cause  he  can't 
anyways  be  nursemaid  to  him.  Lor!  and  there,  everything 
so  beautiful,  and  just  that  one  screw  loose.  0  Mr.  Went- 
worth  !   what  do  you  think  of  her,  sir  ?  " 

Austin's  reply  was  as  satisfactory  as  a  man's  poor  speech 
could  make  it.  lie  heard  that  Lady  Feverel  was  in  tho 
house,  and  Mrs.  Berry  prepared  the  way  for  him  to  pay  his 
respects  to  her.  Then  Mrs.  Berry  ran  to  Lucy,  and  the 
house  buzzed  with  new  life.  The  simple  creatures  felt  in 
Austin's  presence  something  good  among  them.  "  He  don't 
speak  much,"  said  Mrs.  BeiTy,  "  but  I  see  by  his  eye  ho 
mean  a  deal.  He  ain't  one  o'  yer  long-word  gentry,  who's 
all  gay  deceivers,  every  one  of  'cm." 

Lucy  pressed  the  hearty  suckling  into  her  breast.  "  I 
wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me,  Mrs.  Berry  ?  I  could  not 
speak  to  him.  I  loved  him  before  I  saw  him.  I  knew  what 
his  face  was  like." 

"  He  looks  proper  even  with  a  beard,  and  that's  a  trial  for 
a  vii-tuous  man,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "  One  sees  straight 
through  the  hair  with  him.  Think  !  he'll  think  t\hat  any 
man  'd  think — you  a-suckin'  spite  o'  all  your  sorrow,  my 
sweet, — and  my  Bei-ry  talkin'  of  his  Roman  matrons  ! — here's 
a  English  wife  '11  match  'em  all  !  that's  what  he  thinks. 
And  now  that  leetle  dark  under  yer  eye'll  clear,  my  darlin', 
now  he've  come." 

Mrs.  BeiTy  looked  to  no  more  than  that ;  Lucy  to  no  moro 
than  the  peace  she  had  in  being  near  Richard's  best  friend. 
When  she  sat  down  to  tea  it  was  with  a  sense  that  the  little 
room  that  held  her  was  her  home  perhaps  for  many  a  day. 

A  chop  jirocui'cd  and  cooked  by  Mrs.  Berry  formed  Austin's 
dinner.  During  the  meal  he  entertained  them  Avith  anecdotes 
of  his  travels.  Poor  Lucy  had  no  temptation  to  try  to  conquer 
Austin.     That  hei-oic  weakness  of  hers  was  gone. 

^Irs.  Berry  had  said:  "Three  cups — I  goes  no  further," 
and  Lucy  liad  rejected  the  proffer  of  more  tea,  when  Austin, 
wh'j  was  in  the  thick  of  a  Brazilian  forest,  asked  her  if  she 
was  a  good  traveller. 


AUSTIN  RETURNS.  429 

**I  mean,  can  you  start  at  a  minute's  notice  ?" 

Lucy  hesitated,  and  then  said,  "  Yes,"  decisively,  to  which 
Mrs.  Berry  added,  that  she  was  not  a  "  luggage-woman." 

"  There  used  to  be  a  train  at  seven  o'clock,"  Austin  re- 
marked, consulting  his  watch. 

The  two  women  were  silent. 

"  Could  you  get  ready  to  come  with  me  to  Raynham  in  ten 
minutes  ?" 

Austin  looked  as  if  he  had  asked  a  commonplace  question. 

Lucy's  lips  parted  to  speak.     She  could  not  answer. 

Loud  rattled  the  teaboard  to  Mrs.  Berry's  di-opping  hands. 

"  Joy  and  deliverance !"  she  exclaimed  with  a  foundering 
voice. 

"  Will  you  come  ?"  Austin  kindly  asked  again. 

Lucy  tried  to  stop  her  beating  heart,  as  she  answered, 
"Yes."  Mrs.  Berry  cunningly  pretended  to  interpret  the 
irresolution  in  her  tones  with  a  mighty  whisper:  "She's 
thinking  what's  to  be  done  with  baby." 

"  He  must  learn  to  travel,  too,"  said  Austin. 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Berry,  "and  I'll  be  his  nuss,  and  bear 
him,  a  sweet!  Oh!  and  think  of  it!  me  nurse-maid  once 
more  at  Raynham  Abbey  !  but  it's  nurse- woman  now,  you 
must  say.     Let  us  be  goin'  on  the  spot." 

She  started  up  and  away  in  hot  haste,  fearing  delay  would 
cool  the  heaven-sent  resolve.  Austin  smiled,  eyeing  his  watch 
and  Lucy  alternately.  She  was  wishing  to  ask  a  multitude 
of  questions.  His  face  reassured  her,  and  saying:  "I  will 
be  dressed  instantly,"  she  also  left  the  room.  Talking, 
bustling,  preparing,  wrapping  up  my  lord,  and  looking  to 
their  neatnesses,  they  were  nevertheless  ready  within  the 
time  prescribed  by  Austin,  and  Mrs.  Berry  stood  humming 
over  the  baby.  "  He'll  sleep  it  through,"  she  said.  "  He's 
had  enough  for  an  alderman,  and  goes  to  sleep  sound  after 
his  dinner,  he  do,  a  duck  !"  Before  they  departed,  Lucy 
ran  up  to  Lady  Feverel.     She  returned  for  the  small  one. 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Wcntworth  ?" 

"  Just  two,"  said  Austin. 

Master  Richard  was  taken  up,  and  when  Lucy  came  back 
her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  She  thinks  she  is  never  to  see  him  again,  Mr.  Went 
worth." 

"  She  shall,"  Austin  said  simply. 


•l.'JO  THE  OKOKAL  OF  RlCnARD  PEVEREL. 

0£E  thoy  went,  and  with  Austin  near  her,  Lucy  forgot  to 
dwell  at  all  upon  the  g-rcat  act  of  courage  she  was  performing. 

"  I  do  hope  baby  will  not  wake,"  was  her  chief  solicitude. 

"  He  !"  cries  nui-se-woman  I3eri-y  from  the  roar,  "  his  little 
tum-tum's  as  tight  as  he  can  hold,  a  pet!  a  lamb!  a  bird  !  a 
beauty  !  and  ye  may  take  yer  oath  he  never  wakes  till  that's 
slack.     He've  got  character  of  his  own,  a  blessed !" 

There  are  some  tremendous  citadels  that  only  want  to  be 
taken  by  storm.  The  baronet  sat  alone  in  his  library,  sick 
of  resistance,  and  rejoicing  in  the  pride  of  no  surrender  ;  a 
teiTor  to  his  friends  and  to  himself.  Hearing  Austin's  name 
sonorously  pronounced  by  the  man  of  calves,  he  looked  up 
from  his  book,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Glad  to  see  you, 
Austin."  His  appearance  betokened  complete  security.  The 
next  minute  he  found  himself  escaladed. 

It  was  a  cry  from  Mrs.  Berry  that  told  him  othci-s  were  in 
the  room  besides  Austin.  Lucy  stood  a  little  behind  the 
lamp  :  Mrs  Berry  close  to  the  door.  The  door  was  half 
open,  and  passing  through  it  might  be  seen  the  petrified 
figure  of  a  fine  man.  The  baronet  glancing  over  the  lamp 
rose  at  Mrs.  Berry's  signification  of  a  woman's  personality. 
Austin  stepped  back  and  led  Lucy  to  him  by  the  hand.  "  I 
have  brought  Richard's  wife,  sir,"  he  said  with  a  pleased, 
perfectly  uncalculating,  countenance,  that  was  disai-ming. 
Very  pale  and  tremVjling  Lucy  bowed.  She  felt  her  two 
hands  taken,  and  heard  a  kind  voice.  Could  it  be  possible  it 
belonged  to  the  dreadful  father  of  her  husband  ?  She  lifted 
her  eyes  nervously :  her  hands  were  still  detained.  The 
baronet  contemplated  Richard's  choice.  Had  he  ever  had  a 
rivalry  with  those  pure  eyes  ?  He  saw  the  pain  of  her  posi- 
tion shooting  across  her  brows,  ai.d,  uttering  gentle  inquiries 
as  to  her  health,  placed  her  in  a  seat.  Mrs.  Berry  had  already 
fallen  into  a  chair. 

"  What  aspect  do  you  like  for  your  bedroom  ? — East  ?" 
said  the  baronet. 

Lucy  was  asking  herself  wonderingly  :  "  Am  T  to  stay  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  take  to  Richard's  room  at  once," 
he  pursued.  "You  have  the  Lobourne  valley  there  and  a 
good  morning  air,  and  will  feel  more  at  home." 

Lucy's  colour  mounted.  Mrs.  Berry  gave  a  short  cough, 
as  one  who  should  say,  "  The  day  is  ours !"  Undoubtedly—' 
straiitre  as  it  was  to  think  it — the  foi'tress  was  cari-ied. 


AUSTIN  RETURNS.  4:U 

"Lucy  is  rather  tired,"  said  Austin,  and  to  hear  her  Cliris' 
tian  name  thus  bi'avelj  spoken  brought  grateful  dew  to  her 
eyes. 

The  baronet  was  about  to  touch  the  bell.  "  But  have  you 
come  alone  ?"  he  asked. 

At  this  Mrs.  Berry  came  forward.  Not  immediately :  it 
seemed  to  require  effort  for  her  to  move,  and  when  she  was 
within  the  region  of  the  lamp,  her  agitation  could  not  escape 
notice.     The  blissful  bundle  shook  in  her  arms. 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  he  to  me  ?"  Austin  inquired  gene- 
rally as  he  went  and  unveiled  the  younger  hope  of  Raynham. 
"  My  relationship  is  not  so  defined  as  yours,  sir." 

An  observer  might  have  supposed  that  the  baronet  peeped 
at  his  grandson  with  the  courteous  indifference  of  one  who 
merely  wished  to  compliment  the  mother  of  anybody's  child. 

"  I  really  think  he's  like  Richard,"  Austin  laughed.  Lucy 
looked  :  I  am  sure  he  is. 

"  As  like  as  one  to  one,"  Mrs.  Berry  murmured  feebly;  but 
Grandpapa  not  speaking  she  thought  it  incumbent  on  her  to 
pluck  up.  "And  he's  as  healthy  as  his  father  was,  Sii 
Austin — spite  o'  the  might  'a  beens.  Reg'lar  as  the  clock  ! 
We  never  want  a  clock  since  he  come.  We  knows  the  hour 
o'  the  day,  and  of  the  night." 

"  You  nurse  him  yourself,  of  course  ?"  the  baronet  spoke 
to  Lucy,  and  was  satisfied  on  that  point. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  going  to  display  his  prodigious  legs.  Lucy, 
fearing  the  consequent  effect  on  the  prodigious  lungs,  begged 
her  not  to  wake  him.  "  'T'd  take  a  deal  to  do  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Berry,  and  harped  on  Master  Richard's  health  and  the 
small  wonder  it  was  that  he  enjoyed  it,  considering  the 
superior  quality  of  his  diet,  and  the  lavish  attentions  of  hi.s 
mother,  and  then  suddenly  fell  silent  on  a  deep  sigh. 

"  He  looks  healthy,"  said  the  baronet,  "  but  I  am  not  a 
judge  of  babies." 

Thus,  having  capitulated,  Raynliam  chose  to  acknowledge 
its  new  commandant,  who  was  now  borne  away,  under  the 
directions  of  the  housekeeper,  to  occupy  the  room  Richard 
had  slept  in  when  an  infant. 

Austin  cast  no  thought  on  his  success.  The  baronet  said  : 
"She  is  extremely  well-looking."  He  replied:  "A  person 
you  take  to  at  once."     There  it  ended. 

Buta  much  more  animated  collrxpiy  was  toking])lacc  aloft, 


4^2  THE  OrPKAT,  OF  TirnATiD  FEVEREL. 

whci'O  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Berry  sat  alone.  Lucy  expected  licr  to 
talk  about  the  reception  thoy  had  met  with,  anil  the  house, 
and  the  peculiarities  of  the  rooms,  and  the  solid  h<ap])ines3 
that  seemed  in  store.  !Mrs.  Berry  all  the  while  would  per- 
si.st  in  consulting  the  looking-glass.  Her  first  distinct  answer 
was,  "  My  dear  !  tell  me  candid,  how  do  I  look  ?" 

"  Very  nice  indeed,  Mrs.  Berry ;  but  could  you  have  be- 
lieved he  would  be  so  kind,  so  considerate  P" 

"  I'm  sure  I  looked  a  frump,"  returned  Mrs.  Berry.  "  Oh, 
dear  !  two  birds  at  a  shot.     What  do  you  think,  now  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  so  wonderful  a  likeness,"  says  Lucy. 

"  Likeness  !  look  at  me."  Mrs.  Berry  was  trembling  and 
hot  in  the  palms. 

"  You're  very  feverish,  dear  Berry.     What  can  it  be  ?" 

"Ain't  it  like  the  love-iiutters  of  a  young  gal,  my 
dear." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Berry,  dear,"  says  Lucy,  pouting  in  her  soft 
caressing  way.  "  I  will  undress  you,  and  see  to  you,  dear 
heart!     You've  had  so  ni'ich  excitement." 

"Ha!  ha!"  Ben-y  laughed  hysterically;  "  she  thinks  it's 
about  this  business  of  hers.  Why,  it's  child's-play,  my  darlin'. 
But  I  didn't  look  for  tragedy  to-night.  Sleep  in  this  house 
I  can't,  my  love  !" 

Lucy  was  astonished.  "  Not  sleep  here,  Mrs.  Berry  ?— 
Oh  !  why,  you  silly  old  thing  ?     I  know." 

"  Do  ye  !"  said  Mrs.  Berry  with  a  sceptical  nose, 

"  You're  afraid  of  ghosts." 

"  Belike  I  am  when  they're  six  foot  two  in  their  shoes,  and 
bellows  when  you  stick  a  pin  into  their  calves.  I  seen  my 
Berry  !" 

"  Your  husband  ?" 

"Large  as  life  !" 

Lucy  meditated  on  optical  delusions,  but  Mrs.  Berry 
described  him  as  thft  Colossus  who  had  marched  them  into 
the  library,  and  vowed  that  he  had  recognized  her,  and 
quaked.  "  Time  ain't  aged  him,"  said  Mrs.  Berry,  "  whei-eas 
me  !  he've  got  his  excuse  now.     I  know  I  look  a  frump." 

Lucy  kissed  her :  "  You  look  the  nicest,  dearest  old 
thing." 

"  You  may  say  an  old  thing,  my  dear," 

**  And  your  husband  is  really  here  ?" 

**  Berry's  below  I" 


AUSTIN  RKTUEXS.  433 

Profonndly  uttered  as  this  Avas,  it  chased  every  Testige  of 
incredulity. 

"  What  will  you  do,  Mvs.  Berry  ?" 

"  Go,  my  deal'.  Leave  him  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way. 
It's  over  atween  us,  I  see  that.  When  1  entered  the  house  I 
felt  there  was  something  comin'  over  me,  and  lo  and  behold 
ye  !  no  sooner  was  we  in  the  hall-passage — if  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  blessed  infant  I  sh'd  'a  dropped.  I  must  'a  known 
his  step,  for  my  heart  began  thumpin',  and  1  knew  1  hadn't 
got  my  hair  straight — that  Mr.  Wentworth  was  in  such  a 
hurry — nor  ray  best  gown.  ]  knew  he'd  scorn  me.  He  hates 
frumps." 

"  Scorn  you  !"  cried  Lucy  angi'ily.  "  He  who  has  behaved 
so  wickedly !" 

Mrs.  Berry  attempted  to  rise.  "  I  may  as  well  go  at  once," 
she  whimpered.  "  If  I  see  him  I  shall  only  be  disgracin'  of 
myself.  I  feel  it  all  on  my  side  already.  Did  ye  mark  him, 
my  dear  ?  He's  in  his  uniform.  His  uniconj  I  used  to  call 
if,  vexin'  him.  I  know  J  was  vexin'  to  him  at  times,  1  Avas. 
Those  big  men  are  se  touchy  about  their  dignity — nat'ral. 
Hark  at  me  !  I'm  goin'  all  soft  in  a  minute,  Let  me  leave 
the  house,  my  dear.  I  dare  say  it  was  good  half  my  fault. 
Young  women  don't  understand  men  sufficient — not  alto- 
gether— and  I  was  a  young  woman  then — and  then  what 
they  goes  and  does  they  ain't  quite  answerable  for:  they 
feels,  I  dare  say,  pushed  from  behind.  Yes.  I'll  go.  I'm 
a  frump.  I'll  go.  'Tain't  in  mitur'  for  me  to  sleep  in  the 
Bame  house." 

Lucy  laid  her  hands  on  Mrs.  Berry's  shoulders,  and  forcibly 
fixed  her  in  her  seat.  "  Leave  baby,  naughty  woman  ?  I 
tell  3'ou  he  shall  come  to  you,  and  fall  on  his  knees  to  you 
and  beg  your  fo]'givcness." 

"  Berry  on  his  knees  !" 

"  Yes.     And  he  shall  beg  and  pray  you  to  forgive  him." 

"If  you  get  more  from  Martin  Berry  than  breath-a way 
■words,  great '11  be  my  wonder!"  said  Mrs.  Berry. 

"  We  will  see,"  said  Lucy,  thoroughly  determined  to  do 
something  for  the  good  creatui'e  that  had  befriended  her. 

Mrs.  Berry  examined  her  gown.  "  Won't  it  seem  we're 
runnin'  after  him  ?"  she  murmured  faintly. 

"  He  is  your  husband,  Mrs.  Bcri-y.  He  may  be  wanting 
to  oonio  to  yon  now." 

•2  K 


434  TnE  ORDKAT,  OF  RiniAUD  FEVERRL. 

"Oh!  wliore  is  nil  I  w.as  goin  to  say  to  tliut  man  wlien 
■we  met!"  ^Irs.  JJerry  ejacnlatod.     Lucy  liad  left  tliu  room. 

On  tlio  laiulini^  outside  tlio  door  Lucy  met  a  lady  dressed 
in  black,  who  stojiped  her  and  asked  if  she  was  llichard's 
wife,  and  kissed  her,  passing  from  her  immediately.  Lucy 
despatched  a  message  for  Austin,  and  related  the  Berry 
history,  Austin  sent  for  the  great  man,  and  said  :  "  Do  you 
know  your  wife  is  here  V"  Before  Berry  had  time  to  draw 
himself  up  to  enunciate  his  longest,  he  was  requested  to  step 
upstairs,  and  as  his  young  mistress  at  once  led  the  wa}^ 
Berry  could  not  refuse  to  put  his  legs  in  motion  and  carry  the 
stately  edifice  aloft. 

Of  the  interview  !Mrs.  Berry  gave  Lucy  a  slight  sketch 
that  night.  "  He  began  in  the  old  way,  my  dear,  and  says 
I,  a  ti'ue  heart  and  plain  words,  ^lartin  Berry.  So  there  he 
cuts  himself  and  his  Johnson  short,  and  down  he  goes — down 
on  his  knees.  I  never  could  'a  believed  it.  I  kep  my  dignity 
as  a  woman  till  I  see  that  sight,  but  that  done  for  me.  I 
was  a  ripe  apple  in  his  arms  'fore  I  knew  where  I  was. 
There's  something  about  a  fine  man  on  his  knees  that's  too 
much  for  us  women.  And  it  reely  was  the  penitent  on  his 
two  knees,  not  the  lover  on  his  one.  If  he  mean  it !  But 
ah  !  what  do  you  think  he  begs  of  me,  my  dear  ? — not  to 
make  it  known  in  the  house  just  yet !  1  can't,  I  can't  say 
that  look  well." 

Lucy  attributed  it  to  his  sense  of  shame  at  his  conduct, 
and  Mrs.  BeiTy  did  her  best  to  look  on  it  in  that  light. 

"  Did  the  bar'net  kiss  ye  when  you  wished  him  good 
night?"  she  asked.  Lucy  said  he  had  not.  "T'len  bide 
awake  as  long  as  ye  can,"  was  Mrs.  Berry's  rejoinder. 
"And  now  let  us  pray  blessings  on  that  simple-speaking 
gentleman  who  does  se  much  'cause  he  says  se  little." 

Like  many  other  natural  people,  ^Mrs.  Berry  was  only  silly 
where  her  own  soft  heart  w-as  concerned.  As  she  secretly 
anticipated,  the  baronet  came  into  her  room  when  all  was 
quiet.  She  saw  him  go  and  bend  over  Richard  the  Second, 
and  remain  earnestly  watching  him.  He  then  went  to  the 
half-opened  door  of  the  room  where  Lucy  slept,  leaned  his 
ear  a  moment,  knocked  gently,  and  entered.  Mrs.  Berry 
heard  low  woids  interchanging  within.  She  could  not  catch  a 
syllable,  yet  she  would  have  sworn  to  the  context.  "  He've 
called  hei-  his  daughter,  promised  her  happiness,  and  given 


NATURE  SPEAKS.  k35 

a  father's  kiss  to  her."     When  Sir  Austin  passed  out  she 
was  in  a  deep  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


NATURE   SPEAKS. 


Briareus  reddening  angrily  over  the  sea — where  is  that 
vaporous  Titan  F  And  Hesper  set  in  his  rosy  garland — why 
looks  he  so  implacably  sweet  ?  It  is  that  one  has  left  that 
bright  home  to  go  forth  and  do  cloudy  work,  and  he  has  got 
a  stain  with  which  he  dare  not  return.  Far  in  the  West  fair 
Lucy  beckons  him  to  come.  Ah,  heaven !  if  he  might !  How 
strong  and  fierce  the  temptation  is !  how  subtle  the  sleepless 
desire!  it  drugs  his  reason,  his  honour.  For  he  loves  her; 
she  is  still  the  first  and  only  woman  to  him.  Otherwise 
would  this  black  spot  be  hell  to  him  ?  otherwise  would  his 
limbs  be  chained  while  her  arms  spread  open  to  him.  And 
if  he  loves  her,  why  then  what  is  one  fall  in  the  pit,  or  a 
thousand  ?  Is  not  love  the  password  to  that  beckonincr 
bliss  ?  So  may  we  say ;  but  here  is  one  whose  body  has 
been  made  a  temple  to  him,  and  it  is  desecrated. 

A  temple,  and  desecrated  !  For  what  is  it  fit  for  but  for 
a  dance  of  devils  H  His  education  has  thus  wrought  hiui  to 
think. 

He  can  blame  nothing  but  his  own  baseness..  But  to  feel 
base  and  accept  the  bliss  that  beckons — he  has  not  fallen  so 
low  as  that. 

Ah,  happy  English  home!  sweet  wife  !  what  mad  miserable 
Wisp  of  the  Fancy  led  him  away  from  you,  high  in  his  con- 
ceit ?  Poor  wi-etch !  that  thought  to  be  he  of  the  hundred 
hands,  and  war  against  the  absolute  Gods.  Jove  whispered 
a  light  commission  to  the  Laughing  Dame;  she  met  him; 
and  how  did  he  shake  Olympus  ?  with  laughter. 

Sure  it  were  better  to  be  Orestes,  the  Furies  howling  in 
his  ears,  than  one  called  to  by  a  heavenly  soul  from  whom 
ho  is  for  ever  outcast.  He  has  not  the  oblivion  of  madness. 
Clothed  in  the  li  hts  of  his  first  passion,  robed  in  the  s|)lon. 
dour  of  old  skicjs,  she  meets  him  everywhere ;  morning, 
evening,   and   night,   she    shines   above   him;    waylays   hiiu 


436  THB  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARn  FFVPHRL. 

suddenly  in  forest  do])tlis;  drops  palpalily  on  his  li(>art.  At 
moments  be  forgets;  he  rushes  to  euibraee  her;  calls  her  his 
beloved,  and  lo,  her  innocent  kiss  brings  agony  of  (ihamc  to 
his  face. 

Daily  the  struggle  endured.  His  father  wrote  to  him, 
begging  him  b^'  the  love  he  liad  for  him  to  return.  From 
that  hour  Richard  burnt  uniead  all  the  letters  he  received. 
He  knew  too  well  how  easily  he  could  persuade  himself: 
words  from  without  might  tempt  him  and  quite  extinguish 
the  spark  of  honourable  feeling  that  tortured  him,  and  that 
he  clung  to  in  desperate  self-vindication. 

To  arrest  young  gentlemen  on  the  downward  slope  is  both 
a  dangerous  and  thankless  office.  It  is,  nevertheless,  one 
fair  women  greatly  prize,  and  certain  of  them  profes.sionally 
follow.  Lady  Judith,  as  far  as  her  sex  would  permit,  was 
also  of  the  Titans  in  their  battle  against  the  absolute  Gods ; 
for  which  purpose,  mark  you,  she  had  married  a  lord  in- 
capable in  all  save  his  acres.  Her  achievements  she  kept  to 
her  own  mind  :  she  did  not  look  happy  over  them.  She  met 
Richard  accidentally  in  Paris ;  she  saw  his  state  ;  she  let 
him  learn  that  she  alone  on  earth  understood  him.  The 
consequence  was  that  he  was  forthwith  enrolled  in  her  train. 
Itsoothed  him  to  be  near  a  woman.  Did  she  venture  her  guess 
as  to  the  cause  of  hi.s  conduct,  she  blotted  it  out  with  a  facility 
women  have,  and  cast  on  it  a  melancholy  hue  he  was  taught 
to  participate  in.  She  spoke  of  sorrows,  personal  soi-rows, 
much  as  be  might  speak  of  his — vaguel}',  and  with  self- 
blame.  And.  she  understood  him.  How  the  dark  unfathomcd 
wealth  within  us  gleams  to  a  woman's  eye  !  We  are  at  com- 
pound interest  immediately :  so  much  richer  than  we  knew  ! 
— almost  as  rich  as  we  dreamed!  But  then  the  instant  we 
are  away  from  her  we  find  ourselves  bankrupt,  beggared. 
How  is  that  ?  We  do  not  ask.  We  hurry  to  her  and  bask 
hungrily  in  her  orbs.  The  eye  must  be  feminine  to  be  thus 
creative:  I  cannot  say  why.  Lady  Judith  understood 
Richard,  and  he  feeling  infinitely  vile,  somehow  held  to  her 
more  feverishly,  as  one  who  dreaded  the  worst  in  missing 
her.  The  spirit  must  rest;  he  was  weak  with  what  he 
suffered. 

Austin  found  them  among  the  hills  of  Nassau  in  Rhine- 
land  :  Titans,  male  and  female,  who  had  not  displaced  Jove, 
and  svere  now  adrift  prone  on  floods  of  sentiment.     The  blue. 


ITATURE  SPEAKS.  437 

frocked  peasant  swinging  behind  his  oxen  of  a  moi-ning,  the 
gaily-kerchiefed  fruit-woman,  the  jackass-driver,  even  the 
doctor  of  thoso  regions,  have  done  more  for  their  fellows. 
Horrible  reflection  !  Lady  Judith  is  serene  above  it,  but  it 
frets  at  Richard  when  he  is  out  of  her  shadow.  Often 
wretchedly  he  watches  the  young  men  of  his  own  age  troop- 
ing to  their  work.  Not  cloud-work  theirs  !  Work  solid, 
unambitious,  fruitful ! 

Lady  Judith  had  a  nobler  in  prospect  for  the  hero.  Ho 
gaped  for  anything  blindfolded,  and  she  gave  him  the  map 
of  Europe  in  tatters.  He  swallowed  it  comfoi'tably.  It  was 
an  intoxicating  cordial.  Himself  on  horseback  over-riding 
wrecks  of  Empires  !  Well  might  common-sense  cower  with 
the  meaner  animals  at  the  picture.  Tacitly  they  agreed  to 
recast  the  civilized  globe.  The  quality  of  vapour  is  to  melt 
and  shape  itself  anew ;  but  it  is  never  the  quality  of  va^iour 
to  reassume  the  same  shapes.  Briareus  of  the  hundred  un- 
occupied hands  may  turn  to  a  monstrous  donkey  with  his 
hind  legs  aloft,  or  twenty  thousand  jabbering  apes.  The 
phantasmic  groupings  of  the  young  brain  are  very  like  those 
we  see  in  the  skies,  and  equally  the  sport  of  the  wind. 
Lady  Judith  blew.  There  was  plenty  of  vapour  in  him, 
and  it  always  resolved  into  some  shape  or  other.  You 
that  mark  those  clouds  of  eventide,  and  know  youth,  will 
see  the  similitude  :  it  will  not  be  strange,  it  will  barely 
seem  foolish  to  you,  that  a  young  man  of  Richai-d's  age, 
Richard's  education  and  position,  should  be  in  this  wild 
state.  Had  he  not  been  nursed  to  believe  he  was  born  for 
great  things  ?  Did  she  not  say  she  was  sure  of  it  r*  And  to 
I'eel  base,  and  yet  born  for  better,  is  enough  to  make  ono 
grasp  at  anything  cloudy.  Suppose  the  hero  with  a  game 
leg.  How  intense  is  his  faith  in  quacks !  with  what  a 
passion  of  longing  is  he  not  seized  to  break  somebody's  head  ! 
They  spoke  of  Italy  in  low  voices.  "  The  time  will  come," 
said  she.  "  And  I  shall  be  ready,"  said  he.  What  rank 
was  he  to  take  in  the  liberating  army  ?  Captain,  colonel, 
general  in  chief,  or  simple  private  ?  Here,  as  became  him, 
he  was  much  more  positive  and  specihc  than  she  was. 
Simple  private,  he  said.  Yet  he  saw  himself  caracoling  on 
horseback.  Private  in  the  cavalry,  then,  of  course.  Private 
in  the  cavalry  over-riding  w)-ecks  of  Em])ires,  She  looked 
forth  under  hv.v  bi-ows  with  mournful   indistinctness  at  tiiut 


438  IHE  OKDEAL  OF  RICnAUD  FDVEKEL. 

object  in  the  distance.  They  read  Petrarch  to  get  np  tho 
necessary  fires.  Italia  inia  !  Vain  imlceJ  was  this  spcukiiiL,' 
to  those  tliick  and  cjortal  wounds  in  licr  fair  body,  but  tlicir 
eijj^hs  went  with  the  Tiber,  the  Arno,  and  the  Po,  and  their 
hands  joined.  Who  has  not  wept  lor  Italy?  I  see  tlio 
nspiratic)ns  of  a  world  arise  for  her,  thick  and  frequent  as 
tlie  puifs  of  smoke  from  cigars  of  Pannonian  sentries ! 

So  when  Austin  came  Richard  said  he  could  not  leave 
Lady  Judith,  Lady  Judith  said  she  could  not  part  with  him. 
For  his  sake,  mind !  This  Richard  ■verified.  Perhaps  he 
Imd  reason  to  be  grateful.  The  high-road  of  Folly  may  have 
led  him  from  one  that  terminates  worse.  He  is  foolish,  God 
knows  ;  but  for  my  part  I  will  not  laugli  at  the  hero  because 
he  has  not  got  his  occasion.  Meet  him  when  he  is,  as  it 
■were,  anointed  by  his  occasion,  and  he  is  no  laughing  matter. 
Richard  felt  his  safety  in  this  ■which,  to  please  the  world, 
■we  must  term  folly.  Exhalation  of  vapours  was  a  ■wliolo- 
Bome  process  to  him,  and  somebody  ■who  gave  them  sLajio 
and  hue  a  beneficent  Iris.  He  told  Austin  plainly  he  could 
not  leave  her,  and  did  not  anticipate  the  day  when  he  could, 
"  Why  can't  you  go  to  your  wife,  Richard  P" 
*'  For  a  reason  you  would  be  tbe  first  to  approve,  Austin." 
He  welcomed  Austin  ■with  every  show  of  manly  tender- 
ness, and  sadness  at  beart.  Austin  he  had  always  associated 
with  his  Lucy  in  that  Hesperian  palace  of  the  West.  Austin 
waited  patiently.  Lady  Judith's  old  lord  played  on  all  tho 
baths  in  Nassau  without  evoking  the  tune  of  health. 
Whithersoever  he  listed  sbe  changed  her  abode.  So  admir- 
able a  ■wife  was  to  be  pardoned  for  espousing  an  old  man. 
She  was  an  enthusiast  even  in  her  connubial  duties.  She 
had  the  brows  of  an  enthusiast.  With  occasion  she  might 
have  been  a  Charlotte  Corday.  So  let  her  also  be  shielded 
from  the  ban  of  ridicule.  Nonsense  of  enthusiasts  is  very 
different  from  nonsense  of  ninnies.  She  was  truly  a  high- 
minded  person,  of  that  order  who  always  do  what  they  see 
to  be  right,  and  alwaj's  have  confidence  in  their  optics.  She 
■was  not  unworthy  of  a  young  man's  admiration,  if  she  was 
■unfit  to  be  his  guide.  She  resumed  her  ancient  intimacy 
■R-ith  Austin  easily,  while  she  preserved  her  new  footing  with 
Richard.  She  ar.d  Austin  were  not  unlike,  only  Austin 
never  dreamed,  and  had  not  married  an  old  lord. 

The  three  were  walkintr  on  the  bridi^e  at  Limbuig  on  the 


l^ATDKE  SrEAKB.  439 

Lahn,  wtere  tlie  sliadow  of  a  stone  bishop  is  thrown  by  the 
moonlig-ht  on  the  water  brawlin,"^  over  slabs  of  slate.  A 
woman  passed  them  bearing  in  her  arms  a  baby,  whose 
mighty  size  drew  their  attention. 

"  What  a  wopper !  "  Richard  laughed. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  fine  fellow,"  said  Austin,  "  but  I  don't 
think  he's  much  bigger  than  your  boy." 

"  He'll  do  for  a  nineteenth-century  Arminius,"  Richard 
was  saying.     Then  he  looked  at  Austin. 

"  What  was  that  you  said  ? "  Lady  Judith  asked  o£ 
Austin. 

"  What  have  I  said  that  deserves  to  be  repeated?"  Austin 
counterqueried  quite  innocently. 

"  Richard  has  a  son  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  know  it  ?  " 

"  His  modesty  goes  very  far,"  said  Lady  Judith  sweeping 
a  curtsey  to  Richard's  paternity. 

Richard's  heart  throbbed  with  violence.  He  looked  again 
in  Austin's  face.  Austin  took  it  so  much  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  he  said  nothing  more  on  the  subject. 

"  Well !  "  murmured  Lady  Judith. 

The  moment  the  two  men  were  alone,  Richard  said  in  a 
quick  voice :  "  Austin  !  were  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  Austin  replied.     "  When  ?  " 

"  In  what  you  said  on  the  bridge." 

"  On  the  bridge  ?  " 

"  You  said  1  had  a  " — he  could  hardly  get  the  words  out 
" — a  son." 

"  You  didn't  know  it,  Richard  ?  " 

«•  No." 

"  Why,  they  all  wrote  to  you.  Lucy  WTote  to  you  :  your 
father,  your  aunt.     I  believe  Adrian  wrote  too." 

"  I  tore  up  their  letters,"  said  Richard. 

"  He's  a  noble  fellow,  I  can  tell  you.  You've  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of,  my  dear  boy.  He'll  soon  be  coming  to  ask 
about  you.     I  made  sure  you  knew." 

"No,  I  never  knew."  Richard  walked  away,  and  then 
said:  "What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  really  is  like  you,  but  he  has  his  mother's 
eyes." 

"  And  she's — quite  well !  " 

"  Yes.     I  think  the  child  has  kept  her  so." 


440  TllK  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  FliVEREL. 

"  Ami  tliey're  both  at  Raynham  ?  " 

"  Both." 

Hence,  fantastic  vapours  !  What  are  ye  to  this  !  Where 
ai-e  the  dreams  of  the  hero  when  he  learns  he  has  a  child  ? 
Nature  is  taking  him  to  her  bosom.  She  will  speak  ])re- 
sently.  Every  domesticated  boor  in  these  hills  can  boast  the 
same,  yet  marvels  the  hero  at  none  of  his  visioned  prodiy-iea 
as  he  does  when  he  comes  to  hear  of  this  most  common  per- 
formance. A  father  ?  Richard  fixed  his  eyes  as  if  ho  were 
tryincr  to  make  out  the  lineaments  of  his  child. 

Telling  Austin  he  would  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  he  sal- 
lied into  the  air,  and  walked  on  and  on.  "  A  father  !  "  lie 
kept  repeating  to  himself  :  "  a  child  !  "  And  though  he  knew 
it  not,  he  was  striking  the  key-notes  of  Nature.  13ut  he  did 
know  of  a  singular  harmony  that  suddenly  burst  over  his 
whole  being. 

The  moon  was  surpassingly  bright:  the  summer  air  heavy 
and  still.  He  left  the  high  road  and  pierced  into  the  forest. 
His  walk  was  rapid  :  the  leaves  on  the  trees  brushed  his 
cheeks  ;  the  dead  leaves  heaped  iu  the  dells  noised  to  his  feet. 
Something  of  a  religious  joy — a  strange  sacred  pleasure  — 
was  in  him.  By  degrees  it  wore  ;  he  remembered  himself : 
ind  now  he  was  possessed  by  a  proportionate  anguish.  A 
father !  he  dared  never  see  his  child.  And  he  had  no  longer 
his  phantasies  to  fall  upon.  He  was  utterly  bare  to  his  sin. 
[n  his  troubled  mind  it  scorned  to  him  that  Clare  looked 
down  on  him — Clare  who  saw  him  as  he  was — and  that  to 
her  eyes  it  would  be  infamy  for  him  to  go  and  print  his  kiss 
upon  his  child.  Then  came  stern  efforts  to  command  his 
misery  and  make  the  nerves  of  his  face  iron. 

By  the  log  of  an  ancient  tree  half  buried  in  dead  leaves  of 
past  summers,  beside  a  brook,  he  halted  as  one  who  had 
reached  his  journey's  end.  There  he  discovered  he  had  a 
companion  in  Lady  Judith's  little  dog.  He  gave  tho 
friendly  animal  a  pat  of  recognition,  and  both  were  silent  in 
the  forest-silence. 

It  was  impossible  for  Richard  to  return;  his  heart  was 
surcharged.  He  must  advance,  and  on  he  footed,  the  little 
dog  following. 

An  oppressive  slumber  hung  about  the  forest-branches. 
In  the  dells  and  on  the  heights  Avas  the  saine  dead  heat. 
Here  where  tho  brook  tinkled  it  was  no  cool-lipped  sound, 


NATUKE  SPEAKS.  441 

but  metallic,  and  without  the  spirit  of  water.  Yonder  in  a 
space  of  moonlight  on  lush  gi-ass,  the  beams  were  as  white 
tire  to  sight  and  feeling.  No  haze  spread  ai-ound.  The  val- 
leys were  clear,  defined  to  the  shadows  of  their  verges ;  the 
distances  sharply  distinct,  and  with  the  colours  of  day  but 
slightly  softened.  Richard  beheld  a  roe  moving  across  a 
slope  of  sward  far  out  of  rifle-mark.  The  breathless  silence 
was  significant,  yet  the  moon  shone  in  a  broad  blue  heaven, 
Tongue  out  of  mouth  trotted  the  little  dog  after  him ; 
couched  panting  when  he  stopped  an  instant ;  rose  weariedly 
when  he  started  afresh.  Now  and  then  a  large  white  night- 
moth  flitted  through  the  dusk  of  the  forest. 

On  a  barren  corner  of  the  wooded  highland  looking  inland 
stood  gray  topless  ruins  set  in  nettles  and  I'ank  grass-blades. 
Richard  mechanically  sat  down  on  the  crumbling  flints  to 
rest,  and  listened  to  the  panting  of  the  dog.  Spi'inkled  at 
his  feet  were  emerald  lights :  hundreds  of  glow-worms 
studded  the  dark  dry  ground. 

He  sat  and  eyed  them,  thinking  not  at  all.  His  energies 
were  expended  in  action.  He  sat  as  a  part  of  the  ruins,  and 
the  moon  turned  his  shadow  Westward  from  the  South. 
Overhead,  as  she  declined,  long  ripples  of  silver  cloud  were 
imperceptibly  stealing  toward  her.  They  were  the  van  of  a 
tempest.  He  did  not  observe  them,  or  the  leaves  beginning 
to  chatter.  When  he  again  pursued  his  course  with  his  face 
to  the  Rhiue,  a  huge  mountain  appeared  to  rise  sheer  over 
him,  and  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  scale  it.  He  got  no 
nearer  to  the  base  of  it  for  all  his  vigorous  outstepping. 
The  ground  began  to  dip  ;  he  lost  sight  of  the  sky.  Then 
heavy  thundei'-di'ops  struck  his  cheek,  the  loaves  were  sing- 
ing, the  eai'th  breathed,  it  was  black  before  him  and  behind. 
All  at  once  the  thunder  spoke.  The  mountain  he  had 
marked  was  bursting  over  him. 

Up  started  the  whole  forest  in  violet  fire.  He  saw  the 
country  at  ilie  foot  of  the  hills  to  the  bounding  Rhine  gleam, 
quiver,  extinguished.  Then  there  were  pauses  ;  and  the 
lightning  seemed  as  the  eye  of  heaven,  and  the  thunder 
as  the  toiig-ue  of  heaven,  each  alternately  addressing  him  ; 
filling  him  with  awful  lupture.  Alone  there — sole  human 
creature  an)ong  the  grandeurs  and  mystoi'ies  of  storm — he 
felt  the  reiJi-esentative  of  his  kind,  and  his  spirit  rose,  and 
marched,  and  exulted,  let  it  be  glory,  let  it  be  ruin  !     Lower 


•^  12  TUE  ORDEAL  OF  UICHARD  FEVEREL. 

dowTi  the  lightened  abysses  of  air  rolled  tlio  wiaf liful  crash  : 
then  white  thrusts  of  light  were  darted  from  the  sky,  and 
great  curving  ferns,  seen  steadfast  in  pallor  a  second,  were 
supernaturallj  agitated,  and  vanished.  Then  a  shrill  song 
roused  in  the  leaves  and  the  herbage.  Prolonged  and  louder 
it  sounded,  as  deeper  and  heavier  the  deluge  pressed.  A 
mighty  force  of  water  satisfied  the  desire  of  the  earth.  Even 
in  this,  drenched  as  he  was  by  the  fii\st  outpouring,  Richard 
had  a  savage  pleasure.  Keeping  in  motion  he  was  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  wet,  and  the  grateful  bi-eath  of  the  weeds 
was  refreshing.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  lifting  a  curious 
nostril.  He  fancied  he  smelt  meadow-sweet.  He  had  never 
seen  the  flower  in  Rhineland — never  thought  of  it ;  and  it 
would  hardly  be  met  with  in  a  forest.  He  was  sui"e  he 
smelt  it  fresh  in  dews.  His  little  companion  wagged  a 
misei-able  wet  tail  some  way  in  advance.  He  went  on  slowly, 
thinking  indistinctly.  After  two  or  three  steps  he  stooped 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  for  the  flower,  having,  he 
knew  not  why,  a  strong  wish  to  verify  its  growth  there. 
Groping  about  his  hand  encountered  something  warm  that 
started  at  his  touch,  and  he,  wuth  the  instinct  we  have, 
seized  it,  and  lifted  it  to  look  at  it.  The  creature  was  very 
small,  evidently  quite  young.  Richard's  eyes,  now  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness,  were  able  to  discern  it  for  what  it 
was,  a  tiny  leveret,  and  he  supposed  that  the  dog  had  pro- 
bably frightened  its  dam  just  before  he  found  it.  He  put 
the  little  thing  on  one  hand  in  his  breast,  and  stepped  out 
rapidly  as  before. 

The  rain  was  now  steady ;  from  every  tree  a  fountain 
poured.  So  cool  and  easy  had  his  mind  become  that  he  was 
speculating  on  what  kind  of  shelter  the  birds  could  find,  and 
how  the  butterflies  and  moths  saved  their  coloured  wings 
from  washing.  Folded  close  they  might  hang  under  a  leaf, 
he  thought.  Lovingly  he  looked  into  the  dripping  darkness 
of  the  coverts  on  each  side,  as  one  of  their  children.  Then 
he  was  musing  on  a  strange  sensation  he  experienced.  It 
ran  up  one  arm  with  an  indescribable  thi-ill,  but  communi- 
cated nothing  to  his  heart.  It  was  purely  physical,  ceased 
for  a  time,  and  recommenced,  till  he  had  it  all  through  his 
blood,  wonderfully  thrilling.  He  grew  aware  that  the  little 
thing  he  cari-ied  in  his  breast  was  licking  his  hand  there. 
The  small  rough  tongue  going  over  and  over  the  palm  of  hia 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT.  443 

hand  produced  this  strange  sensation  lie  felt.  Now  that  he 
knew  the  cause,  the  marvel  ended ;  but  now  that  he  knew 
the  cause,  his  heart  was  touched  and  made  more  of  it.  The 
gentle  scraping  continued  without  intermission  as  on  he 
walked.  What  did  it  say  to  him  ?  Human  tongue  could 
not  have  said  so  much  just  then. 

A  pale  gray  light  on  the  skirts  of  the  flying  tempest  dis- 
played the  dawn.  Richard  was  walking  hurriedly.  The 
green  drenched  weeds  lay  all  about  in  his  path,  bent  thick, 
and  the  forest  drooped  glimmeringly.  Impelled  as  a  man 
who  feels  a  revelation  mounting  obscurely  to  his  brain, 
Richard  was  passing  one  of  those  little  forest-chapels,  hung 
with  votive  wreaths,  where  the  peasant  halts  to  kneel  and 
pray.  Cold,  still,  in  the  twilight  it  stood,  rain-drops  patter- 
ing round  it.  He  looked  within,  and  saw  the  Virgin  holding 
her  Child.  He  moved  by.  But  not  many  steps  had  he  gone 
ere  his  strength  went  out  of  him,  and  he  shuddered.  What 
was  it  ?  He  asked  not.  He  was  in  other  hands.  Vivid  as 
lightning  the  Spirit  of  Life  illumined  him.  He  felt  in  his 
heart  the  cry  of  his  child,  his  darling's  touch.  With  shut 
eyes  he  saw  them  both.  They  drew  him  from  the  depths ; 
they  led  him  a  blind  and  tottering  man.  And  as  they  led 
him  he  had  a  sense  of  purification  so  sweet  he  shuddered 
again  and  again. 

When  he  looked  out  from  his  trance  on  the  breathing 
world,  the  small  birds  hopped  and  chirped  :  warm  fresh 
sunlight  was  over  all  the  hills.  He  was  on  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  entering  a  plain  clothed  with  ripe  corn  under  a  spacious 
morning  sky. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

AGAIN   THE    MAGIAN   CONFLICT. 


Thet  heard  at  Raynham  that  Richard  was  coming.  Lucy 
had  the  news  first  in  a  letter  from  Ripton  Thompson,  who 
met  him  at  Bonn.  Ripton  did  not  say  that  he  had  employed 
his  vacation  lioliday  on  purpose  to  use  his  elTorts  to  induce 
his  dear  friend  to  return  to  his  wife  ;  and  finding  Richard 
aii'eady  on  his  way,  of  course  Ripton  said  nothing  to  him, 


444  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

bnt  affpctcd  to  be  travelling  for  his  pleasure  like  any  cockney. 
Richard  also  wrote  to  her.  In  case  she  should  have  gone  to 
the  sea  ho  directed  her  to  send  word  to  his  hotel  that  he 
might  not  lose  an  hour.  His  letter  was  sedate  in  tone,  very 
sweet  to  her.  Assisted  by  the  faithful  female  Berry,  she 
was  conquering  an  Aphorist. 

"  "NYoraan's  reason  is  in  the  milk  of  her  breasts,"  was  one 
of  his  rough  notes,  due  to  an  observation  of  Lucy's  maternal 
cares.  Let  us  remember,  therefore,  we  men  who  have  drunk 
of  it  largely  there,  that  she  has  it. 

Mrs.  Berry  zealously  apprised  him  how  early  Master 
Richard's  education  had  commenced,  and  the  great  future 
historian  he  must  consequently  be.  This  trait  in  Lucy  was 
of  itself  sufficient  to  win  Sir  Austin. 

"  Here  my  plan  with  Richard  was  false,"  he  reflected : 
"in  presuming  that  anything  save  blind  fortuity  would 
bring  him  such  a  mate  as  he  should  have."  He  came  to  add  : 
"  And  has  got  !" 

He  could  admit  now  that  instinct  had  so  far  beaten 
science ;  for  as  Richard  was  coming,  as  all  were  to  be 
happy,  his  "n'isdom  embraced  them  all  paternally  as  the 
author  of  their  happiness.  Between  him  and  Lucy  a  tender 
intimacy  grew. 

"  I  told  you  she  could  talk,  sir,"  said  Adrian. 

"  She  thinks  !"  said  the  baronet. 

The  delicate  question  how  she  was  to  treat  her  uncle  he 
settled  generously.  Farmer  Blaize  should  come  up  to 
Raynham  when  he  would  :  Lucy  must  visit  him  at  least 
three  times  a  week.  He  had  Farmer  Blaize  and  Mrs.  Berry 
to  study,  and  really  excellent  Aphorisms  sprang  from  the 
plain  human  bases  this  natural  couple  presented. 

"  It  will  do  us  no  harm,"  he  thought,  "  some  of  the  honest 
blood  of  the  soil  in  our  veins."  And  he  was  content  in 
musing  on  the  parentage  of  the  little  cradled  boy.  A  com- 
mon sight  for  those  who  had  the  entry  to  the  library  was 
the  baronet  cherishing  the  hand  of  his  daughter-in-law. 

So  Richard  was  crossing  the  sea,  and  hearts  at  Raynham 
were  beating  quicker  measures  as  the  minutes  progressed. 
That  night  he  would  be  with  them.  Sir  Austin  gave  Lucy 
a  longer,  warmer  salute  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast  in 
the  morning.  ihs.  Berry  waxed  thrice  amorous.  "  It's 
your   second   bridals,   ye    sweet    livin'    widow !"    she    said. 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT.  445 

"  TLanljs  be  the  Lord !  it's  tlie  same  man  too !  and  a  baby 
over  the  bed-post,"  she  appended  seriously. 

"  Strange,"  Berry  declared  it  to  be,  "  strange  I  feel  none 
o'  this  to  my  Berry  now.  All  my  feelin's  o'  love  seem  t'  ave 
gone  into  you  two  sweet  chicks." 

In  fact  the  faithless  male  Berry  complained  of  being 
treated  badly,  and  affected  a  superb  jealousy  of  the  baby  ; 
but  the  good  dame  told  him  that  if  he  suffered  at  all  he 
suffered  his  due.  Berry's  position  was  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable. It  could  not  be  concealed  from  the  lower  house- 
hold that  he  had  a  wife  in  the  establishment,  and  for  the 
complications  this  gave  rise  to,  his  wife  would  not  legiti- 
mately console  him.  He  devised  to  petition  the  baronet. 
Lucy  did  intercede  for  him,  but  Mrs.  Berry  was  obdurate. 
She  averred  she  would  not  give  up  the  child  till  he  was 
weaned.  "  Then,  perhaps,"  she  said  prospectively,  "  you 
see  I  ain't  se  soft  as  you  thought  for." 

"  You're  a  very  unkind,  vindictive  old  woman,"  said 
Lucy. 

"  Belike  I  am,"  Mrs.  Berry  was  proud  to  agree.  We  like 
a  new  character,  now  and  then.  Berry  had  delayed  too 
long. 

She  explained  herself :  "  Let  me  see  my  Berry  with  his 
toes  up,  and  I'm  his  tender  nurse.  It's  a  nursewoman  he've 
found — not  a  wife.  'Tain't  revengin'  him,  my  darlin' !  She 
never  is  to  a  baby — not  a  woman  isn't — what  she  grow  to  a 
man.  I  bad  to  see  my  Berry  again  to  learn  that,  it  seem. 
We  goes  off — somehow — to  a  man.  Hard  on  em',  it  may  be. 
Nat'ral,  it  is.  The  Scripture  tells  of  concubines.  And  there 
was  Abram,  we  read.  But  it's  all  a  puzzle,  man  and  woman  ! 
and  we  perplexes  each  other  on  toe  the  end.  Nor  'tain't 
that  Berry's  alter.  That  man's  much  as  he  was,  in  body 
both  and  in  spirit.  It's  me  am  changed,  and  Berry  dis- 
covers it  to  me  I  am.  It's  a  mis'rable  truth,  it  be,  my 
feelin's  as  a  wedded  wife  seem  gone  now  I  got  him.  '  Kiss 
me,'  says  he.  I  gives  him  my  cheek.  '  So  cold,  Bessy 
Berry,'  he  says  reproachful.  I  don't  say  nothin',  for  how'd 
lie  understand  if  I  tell  him  I  gone  back  to  a  spinster  ?  So  it 
is  !  and  was  I  to  see  my  Berry  kissin'  another  woman  now, 
I'd  only  feel  perhaps — just  that,"  Mrs.  Berry  simulated  a 
short  spasm.  "  And  it  makes  me  feel  different  about  Eternal 
Life  now,"  she  continued.     "  It  was  always  a-marriagin'  in 


41rt  TnK  OHDEAr,  OF  niCnARP  FEVEREL. 

it  before: — couldn't  think  of  it  without  partners: — all  for 
BOX  !  But  now  them  words  '  No  givin'  in  Alarria^'o  '  come3 
home  to  me.  A  man  and  a  woman  they  docs  tlieir  work 
below,  and  it's  ended  long  afore  they  lays  their  bodies  in  the 
grave — leastways  the  Avoman.  It's  be  hoped  you  won't  feel 
that,  my  darlin',  yet  awhile — you  se  rosy  simmerin'  tliere!" 

"  Be  quiet,  Mrs.  Berry,"  says  Lucy,  wishing  to  be  pen- 
sive. 

"  Boilin',  then.  Bless  her  !  she  knows  she  is  !"  And 
Mrs.  Berry,  in  contemplation  of  the  reunion  of  the  younger 
couple,  went  into  amorous  strophes  immediately. 

Were  it  not  notorious  that  the  straightlaeed  prudish  dare 
not  listen  to  the  natural  chaste,  certain  things  ]\Ii'S.  Berry 
thought  it  adviscable  to  impart  to  the  young  wife  with  regard 
to  Berry's  infidelity,  and  the  charity  women  should  have 
toward  sinful  men,  might  here  be  reproduced.  Enough 
that  she  thought  proper  to  broach  the  matter,  and  cite  her 
own  Christian  sentiments. 

Oily  calm  is  on  the  sea.  At  Raynhara  they  look  up  at  the 
sky  and  speculate  that  Kichard  is  approaching  fairly  speeded. 
He  comes  to  throw  himself  on  his  darling's  mercy.  Lucy 
irradiated  over  forest  and  sea,  tempest  and  peace — to  her  the 
hero  comes  humbly.  Great  is  that  day  when  we  see  our  folly ! 
Ripton  and  he  were  the  friends  of  old.  Richard  encouraged 
him  to  talk  of  the  two  he  could  be  eloquent  on,  and  Ripton, 
whose  secret  vanity  was  in  his  powers  of  speech,  never  tired 
of  enumerating  Lucy's  virtues,  and  the  peculiar  attributes  of 
the  baby. 

"  She  did  not  say  a  word  against  me,  Rip  ?  " 

"  Against  you,  Richard  !  The  moment  she  knew  she  was 
to  be  a  mother,  she  thought  of  nothing  but  her  duty  to  the 
ohild.     She's  one  who  can't  think  of  herself." 

"  You've  seen  her  at  Raynham,  Rip  ?  " 

"  Yes,  once.  They  asked  me  down.  And  your  father's  so 
fond  of  her — I'm  sure  he  thinks  no  woman  like  her,  and  he's 
right.     She  is  so  lovely,  and  so  good." 

Richard  was  too  full  of  blame  of  himself  to  blame  his 
father :  too  British  to  expose  his  emotions.  Ripton  divined 
how  deep  and  changed  they  were  by  his  manner.  He  had 
cast  aside  the  hero,  and  however  Ripton  had  obeyed  him 
and  looked  up  to  him  in  the  heroic  time,  he  loved  him  ten- 
fold  now.      He   told   his   friend    how   much   Lucy's   mere 


AGAIN  THE  MAG  IAN  CONFLICT.  447 

«romanly  sweetness  and  excellence  liad  done  for  him,  and 
Richard  contrasted  his  own  protitless  extravagance  with  the 
patient  beauty  of  his  dear  home-angel.  He  was  not  one  to 
take  her  on  the  easy  terms  that  offered.  There  was  that  to 
do  which  made  his  cheek  burn  as  he  thought  of  it,  but  he 
was  going  to  do  it,  even  though  it  lost  her  to  him.  Just  to 
see  her  and  kneel  to  her  was  joy  sufficient  to  sustain  him, 
and  warm  his  blood  in  the  prospect.  They  marked  the 
white  cliffs  growing  over  the  water.  Nearer  the  sun  made 
them  lustrous.  Houses  and  people  seemed  to  welcome  the 
wild  youth  to  common-sense,  simplicity,  and  home. 

They  were  in  town  by  mid-day.  Richard  had  a  momen- 
tary idea  of  not  driving  to  his  hotel  for  letters.  After  a 
short  debate  he  determined  to  go  there.  The  porter  said  he« 
had  two  letters  for  Mr.  Richard  Feverel — one  had  beet 
waiting  some  time.  He  went  to  the  box  and  fetched  them. 
The  first  Richard  opened  was  from  Lucy,  and  as  he  read  it, 
Ripton  observed  the  colour  deepen  on  his  face,  while  a 
quivering  smile  played  about  his  mouth.  He  opened  the 
other  indifferently.  It  began  without  any  form  of  address. 
Richard's  forehead  darkened  at  the  signature.  This  letter 
was  in  a  sloping  feminine  hand,  and  flourished  with  light 
strokes  all  over,  like  a  field  of  the  bearded  barley.  Thus  it 
ran : — 

"  I  know  you  are  in  a  rage  with  me  because  I  would  not 
consent  to  ruin  you,  you  foolish  fellow.  What  do  you  call 
it  ?  Going  to  that  unpleasant  place  together.  Thank  you, 
my  milliner  is  not  read_y  yet,  and  I  want  to  make  a  good 
appearance  when  I  do  go.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  some 
day.  Your  health,  Sir  Richard.  Now  let  me  speak  to  you 
seriously.  Go  home  to  your  wife  at  once.  Rut  I  know  the 
sort  of  fellow  you  are,  and  I  must  be  plain  with  you.  Did  I 
ever  say  I  loved  you  H  You  may  hate  me  as  much  as  yoa 
please,  but  I  will  save  you  from  being  a  fool. 

"Now  listen  to  me.  You  know  my  relations  with  Mount. 
That  beast  Brayder  offered  to  pay  all  my  debts  and  set  me 
afloat,  if  I  would  keep  you  in  town.  I  declare  on  my  honour 
I  had  no  idea  why,  and  I  did  not  agree  to  it.  But  you  were 
such  a  handsome  fellow — I  noticed  you  in  the  Park  befoi-e  I 
heard  a  word  of  you.  But  then  you  fought  shy — you  were 
just  as  tempting  as  a  girl.     You  stung  me.     Do  you  know 


4  18  TnK  OT^PKAT,  OF  KTCnAKP  FEVEHKl,. 

whni  thai  is  ?  I  would  make  you  care  for  mp,  and  wc  know 
liow  it  (.'luU'il,  ■without  any  iiitt'utiou  of  luiuo,  1  sivear.  I'd 
have  cut  olT  my  hand  rather  than  do  you  any  liai-m,  upon  my 
Iionour.  Circumstances  !  Then  I  saw  it  was  all  up  between 
us.  Brayder  came  and  began  to  chaff  about  you.  I  dealt  the 
animal  a  stroke  on  the  face  with  my  riding- whip — I  shut  him 
up  pi'ctty  quick.  Do  you  think  I  would  let  a  man  speak 
about  you  ? — I  was  going  to  swear.  You  see  I  remember 
Dick's  lessons.  O  my  God !  I  do  feel  unhappy. — Brayder 
oifcred  me  money.  Go  and  think  I  took  it,  if  you  like. 
What  do  I  care  what  anybody  thinks  !  Something  that  black- 
guard said  made  me  suspicious.  I  went  down  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight  whei-e  Mount  was,  and  your  wife  was  just  gone  with  an 
old  lady  who  came  and  took  her  way.  I  should  so  have  liked 
to  see  her.  You  said,  you  remember,  she  would  take  me  as 
a  sister,  and  ti'eat  me — I  laughed  at  it  then.  My  God  !  how 
I  could  cry  now,  if  water  did  any  good  to  a  devil,  as  you 
politely  call  poor  me.  I  called  at  your  house  and  saw  your 
man-servant,  who  said  Mount  had  just  been  there.  In  a 
minute  it  struck  me.  I  Avas  sure  Mount  was  after  a  woman, 
but  it  never  struck  me  that  woman  was  your  wife.  Then  I 
saw  why  they  wanted  me  to  keep  you  away.  I  went  to 
Brayder.  You  know  how  I  hate  him.  I  made  love  to  the 
man  to  get  it  out  of  him.  Richard !  my  word  of  honour, 
they  have  planned  to  carry  her  olf ,  if  Mount  finds  he  cannot 
seduce  her.  Talk  of  devils  !  He's  one  ;  but  he  is  not  so  bad 
as  Brayder.     T  cannot  forgive  a  mean  dog  his  villany. 

"  Now  after  this,  I  am  quite  sure  you  are  too  much  of  a 
man  to  stop  away  from  her  another  moment.  I  have  no 
more  to  say.  I  suppose  we  shall  not  see  each  other  again, 
so  good-bye,  Dick  !  I  fancy  I  hear  you  cursing  me.  Wby 
can't  you  feel  like  other  men  on  the  subject  ?  But  if  you 
■were  like  the  rest  of  them  I  should  not  have  cared  for  you  a 
farthing.  I  have  not  worn  lilac  since  I  saw  you  last.  I'll 
be  buried  in  your  colour,  Dick.  That  will  not  offend  you — 
will  it  ? 

"  You  are  not  going  to  believe  I  took  the  money  ?  If  I 
thought  you  thought  that — it  makes  me  feel  like  a  devil  only 
to  fancy  you  think  it. 

"  The  first  time  you  meet  Brayder,  cane  him,  publicly. 

"  Adieu !  Say  it's  because  you  don't  like  his  face.  I  sup- 
pose devils  must  not  say  Adieu.     Here's  plain  old  good-bye. 


AGAIN  THE  MAGIAN  CONFLICT.  449 

then,  between  you  and   me.     Good-bye,    dear  Dick !      You 
won't  think  that  of  me  'i 

"  May  I  eat  dry  bread  to  the  day  of  my  death  if  I  took,  or 
ever  will  touch,  a  scrap  of  their  money.  Bella." 

Richard  folded  up  the  letter  silently. 

"  Jump  into  the  cab,"  he  said  to  Ripton. 

"  Anything  the  matter,  Richard  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  driver  received  directions.  Richard  sat  without 
speaking.  His  friend  knew  that  face.  He  asked  whether 
there  was  bad  news  in  the  letter.  For  answer  he  had  the 
lie  circumstantial.  He  ventured  to  remark  that  they  were 
going  the  wrong  way. 

"  It's  the  right  way,"  cried  Richard,  and  his  jaws  were 
hard  and  square,  and  his  eyes  looked  heavy  and  full. 

Ripton  said  no  more,  but  thought. 

The  cabman  pulled  up  at  a  Club.  A  gentleman,  in  whoni 
Ripton  recognised  the  Hon.  Peter  Brayder,  was  just  then 
Bwinging  a  leg  over  his  horse,  with  one  foot  in  the  stii'rup. 
Hearing  his  name  called,  the  Hon.  Peter  turned  about,  and 
stretched  an  affable  hand. 

"  Is  Mountfalcon  in  town  ? "  said  Richard,  taking  the 
horse's  reins  instead  of  the  gentlemanly  hand.  His  voice 
and  aspect  were  quite  friendly. 

"  Mount  ? "  Brayder  replied,  curiously  watching  the 
action  ;  "  yes.     He's  off  this  evening." 

"  He  is  in  town  ?  "  Richard  released  his  horse.  "  I  want 
to  see  him.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

The  young  man  looked  pleasant :  that  which  might  have 
aroused  Brayder's  suspicions  was  an  old  affair  in  parasitical 
register  by  this  time.  "  Want  to  see  him  ?  What  about  ?  " 
he  said  carelessly,  and  gave  the  addi-ess. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  sung  out,  "  we  thought  of  putting  your 
name  down,  Fevercl."  He  indicated  the  lofty  structai-e. 
*'  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

Richard  nodded  back  to  him,  crying,  "  Hurry."  Brayder 
returned  the  nod,  and  those  who  promenaded  the  disti-ict 
soon  beheld  his  body  in  elegant  motion  to  the  stepping  of  his 
well-eai-ned  horse. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  see  Lord  Mountfalcon  for, 
Richard  :  "  said  Ripton. 

2a 


450  THE  OEPEAL  OF  EICUARD  FEVEREL. 

"  I  ji  st  want  to  see  him,"  Richard  replied. 

Ripton  was  left  in  the  cab  at  the  door  of  my  lord's  resi- 
dence.  Ho  had  to  wait  there  a  space  of  about  ten  minutes, 
when  Richard  returned  with  a  clearer  visage,  though  some- 
what heated.  He  stood  outside  the  cab,  and  Ripton  was 
conscious  of  being  examined  by  those  strong  grey  eyes.  As 
clear  as  speech  he  understood  them  to  say  to  him,  "  You 
won't  do,"  but  which  of  the  many  things  on  earth  he  would 
not  do  for  he  was  at  loss  to  think. 

"  Go  down  to  Raynham,  Ripton.  Say  I  shall  be  there  to- 
night certainly.  Don't  bother  me  with  questions.  Drive  oS 
at  once.     Or  wait.     Get  another  caL .     I'll  take  this." 

Ripton  was  ejected,  and  found  himself  standing  alone  in 
the  street.  As  he  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  after  the 
galloping  cab-horse  to  get  a  word  of  elucidation,  he  heard 
some  one  speak  behind  him. 

"  You  are  Feverel's  friend." 

Ripton  had  an  eye  for  lords.  An  ambrosial  footman, 
standing  at  the  open  door  of  Lord  Mountfalcon's  house,  and 
a  gentleman  standing  on  the  door-step,  told  him  that  he  was 
addressed  by  that  nobleman.  He  was  requested  to  step  into 
the  house.  When  they  were  alone.  Lord  Mountfalcon, 
slightly  ruffled,  said  :  "  Feverel  has  insulted  me  grossly.  I 
must  meet  him,  of  course.  It's  a  piece  of  infernal  folly  ! — T 
suppose  he  is  not  quite  mad  ?  " 

Ripton's  only  definite  answer  was  a  gasping  iteration  of 
"  My  lord." 

My  lord  resumed :  "  I  am  perfectly  guiltless  of  offending 
him,  as  far  as  I  know.  In  fact,  I  had  a  friendship  for  him. 
Is  he  liable  to  fits  of  this  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

Not  yet  at  conversation-point,  Ripton  stammered  :  "  Fits, 
my  lord  ?  " 

"  Ah !  "  went  the  other,  eyeing  Ripton  in  lordly  cognizant 
style.     "  You  know  nothing  of  this  business  perhaps  r*  " 

Ripton  said  he  did  not. 

"  Have  you  any  influence  with  him  ?  " 

"Not  much,  my  lord.     Only  now  and  then — a  little." 

"  You  are  not  in  the  Army  ?  " 

The  question  was  quite  unnecessary.  Ripton  confessed  to 
the  law,  and  my  lord  did  not  look  surprised. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you,"  he  said,  distantly  bowing. 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  451 

Ripton  gave  him  a  commoner's  obeisance ;  but  getting  to 
the  door,  the  sense  of  the  matter  enlightened  him. 

"  It's  a  duel,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  No  help  for  it,  if  his  friends  don't  shut  him  up  in 
Bedlam  between  this  and  to-morrow  morning." 

Of  all  horrible  things  a  duel  was  the  worst  in  Ripton's 
imagination.  He  stood  holding  the  handle  of  the  door, 
revolving  this  last  chapter  of  calamity  suddenly  opened 
where  happiness  had  promised. 

"  A  duel !  but  he  won't,  my  lord, — he  mustn't  fight,  my 
lord." 

"  He  must  come  on  the  ground,"  said  my  lord  positively. 

Ripton  ejaculated  unintelligible  stuff.  Finally  Lord 
Mountfalcon  said  :  "  I  went  out  of  my  way,  sir,  in  speaking 
to  you.  I  saw  you  from  the  window.  Your  friend  is  mad. 
Deuced  methodical,  I  admit,  but  mad.  I  have  particular 
reasons  to  wish  not  to  injure  the  young  man,  and  if  an 
apology  is  to  be  got  out  of  him  when  we're  on  the  ground, 
I'll  take  it,  and  we'll  stop  the  damned  scandal,  if  possible. 
You  understand  ?  I'm  the  insulted  party,  and  I  shall  only 
require  of  him  to  use  formal  words  of  excuse  to  come  to 
an  amicable  settlement.  Let  him  just  say  he  regrets  it. 
Now,  sir,"  the  nobleman  spoke  with  considerable  earnest- 
ness, "  should  anything  happen — I  have  the  honour  to  be 
known  to  Mrs.  Feverel — and  I  beg  you  will  tell  her.  I  very 
particularly  desire  you  to  let  her  know  that  I  was  not  to 
blame." 

Mountfalcon  rang  the  bell,  and  bowed  him  out.  With 
this  on  his  mind  Ripton  hurried  down  to  those  who  were 
waiting  in  joyful  trust  at  Raynham. 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

THE  LAST  SCENK. 

The  watch  consulted  by  Hippias  alternately  with  his 
pulse,  in  occult  calculation  hideous  to  mark,  said  hall'-past 
eleven  on  the  midnight.  Adrian,  wearing  a  composcnlly 
amused  expression  on  his  dim])led  plump  face, — held  slightly 
sideways,   aloof   fjom  paper    and    pen, — sat    writing  at  the 

2  (1  2 


452  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

libraiT  table.  Round  tlio  baronet's  eliair,  in  a  scmioirrlo, 
Avore  Lucv,  Laily  JJlandisli,  Airs.  Doria,  and  Ripton,  lliat 
very  ill  bii-d  at  Raynhani.  Tlu-y  were  silent  as  those  who 
question  the  ilying  minutes.  Ripton  had  said  that  Richard 
was  sure  to  come ;  but  the  feminine  eyes  reading  him  ever 
and  anon,  had  gathered  matter  for  disquietude,  which 
increased  as  time  sped.  Sir  Austin  persisted  in  his  habitual 
air  of  speculative  repose. 

Remote  as  he  appeared  from  vulgar  anxiety,  he  was  the 
first  to  sjjeak  and  betray  his  state. 

"  Pray  put  up  that  watch.  Impatience  serves  nothing," 
he  said,  half-tvu-ning  hastily  to  his  brother  behind  him. 

Hippias  relinquished  his  pulse  and  mildly  groaned  :  "  It's 
no  nightmare,  this  !  " 

His  remark  was  unheard,  and  the  bearing  of  it  remained 
obscure.  Adrian's  pen  made  a  louder  flourish  on  his  manu- 
script ;  whether  in  commiseration  or  infernal  glee,  none 
might  say. 

"  What  are  you  writing  ?  "  the  baronet  inquired  testily  of 
Adrian,  after  a  pause  ;  twitched,  it  may  be,  by  a  sort  of 
jealousy  of  the  wise  youth's  coolness. 

"  Do  I  disturb  you,  sir  ? "  rejoined  Adrian.  '*  I  am 
engaged  on  a  portion  of  a  Proposal  for  uniting  the  Empires 
and  Kingdoms  of  Europe  under  one  Paternal  Head,  on  the 
model  of  the  ever-to-be-admired  and  lamented  Holy  Roman. 
This  treats  of  the  management  of  Youths  and  Maids,  and  of 
cei'tain  magisterial  functions  connected  therewith.  '  It  is 
decreed  that  these  officers  be  all  and  every  men  of  science,' 
etc."     And  Adi-ian  cheerily  drove  his  pen  afresh. 

Mrs.  Doria  took  Lucy's  hand,  mutely  addressing  encour- 
agement to  her,  and  Lucy  brought  as  much  of  a  smile  as  she 
could  command  to  reply  with. 

"  I  fear  we  must  give  him  up  to-night,"  observed  Lady 
Blandish. 

"If  he  said  he  would  come,  he  will  come,"  Sir  Austin 
interjected.  Between  him  and  the  lady  there  was  something 
of  a  contest  secretly  going  on.  He  was  conscious  that 
nothing  save  perfect  success  would  now  hold  this  self- 
emancipating  mind.     She  had  seen  him  through. 

"  He  declared  to  me  he  would  be  certain  to  come,"  said 
Ripti  n  ;  but  he  could  look  at  none  of  them  as  he  said  it,  for 
he  wati  gi'owing  awai-e  that  Richard   might  have  deceived 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  453 

him,  and  was  feeling  like  a  black  conspirator  against  their 
happiness.  He  determined  to  tell  the  baronet  what  he 
knew,  if  Richard  did  not  come  by  twelve. 

"  What  is  the  time  ?  "  he  asked  Hippias  in  a  modest  voice 

"  Time  for  me  to  be  in  bed,"  growled  Hippias,  as  if  every- 
body present  had  been  treating  him  badly. 

Mrs.  Berry  came  in  to  apprise  Lucy  that  she  was  wanted 
above.  She  quietly  rose.  Sir  Austin  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead,  saying  :  "  You  had  better  not  come  down  again, 
my  child."  She  kept  her  eyes  on  .him.  "  Oblige  me  by 
retiring  for  the  night,"  he  added.  Lucy  shook  their  hands, 
and  went  out  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Doria. 

"  This  agitation  will  be  bad  for  the  child,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing to  himself  aloud. 

Lady  Blandish  remarked  :  "  I  think  she  might  just  as  well 
have  returned.     She  will  not  sleep." 

"  She  will  control  herself  for  the  child's  sake." 

"  You  ask  too  much  of  her." 

"  Of  her  not,"  he  emphasized. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  Hippias  shut  his  watch,  and 
Baid  with  vehemence :  "  I'm  convinced  my  circulation 
gradually  and  steadily  decreases." 

"  Going  back  to  the  pre-Harvey  period,"  murmured 
Adrian  as  he  wrote. 

Sir  Austin  and  Lady  Blandish  knew  well  that  any  com- 
ment would  introduce  them  to  the  interior  of  his  machinery, 
the  external  view  of  which  was  sufficiently  harrowing ;  so 
they  maintained  a  discreet  reserve.  Taking  it  for  acquies- 
cence in  his  deplorable  condition,  Hippias  resumed  despair- 
ingly :  "  It's  a  fact.  I've  brought  you  to  see  that.  No  ono 
can  be  more  moderate  than  I  am,  and  yet  I  get  worse.  My 
System  is  organically  sound — I  believe  :  I  do  every  possible 
thing,  and  yet  I  get  worse.  Nature  never  forgives  !  I'll  go 
to  bed." 

The  Dyspepsy  departed  unconsoled. 

Sir  Austin  took  up  his  brother's  thought :  "  I  suppose 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  helps  us  when  we  have  offended 
her." 

"Nothing  short  of  a  quack  satisfies  us,''  said  Adrian, 
applying  wax  to  an  envelope  of  official  dimensions. 

Ripton  sat  accusing  his  snnl  of  cowardice  while  they 
talked  ;  haunted  by  Lucy's  hist  look  at  him.     He  got  up  biH 


454  THE  ORDEAL  OF  EICHARD  FEVEREL. 

couraci'O  prosontly  ami  ■wont  round  to  Adrian,  wlio,  aftnr  a 
few  whispered  words,  delibei-alely  rose  and  accompanied 
him  out  of  the  room,  shrngcfing'.  When  they  liad  gone, 
Lady  Bhmdish  said  to  the  baronet:  "  He  is  not  coming.'" 

"  To-morrow,  then,  if  not  to-night,"  he  replied.  "  But  I 
say  he  will  come  to-night." 

"  You  do  really  wish  to  see  him  united  to  his  wife  ?  " 

The  question  made  the  baronet  raise  his  brows  with  somo 
displeasure. 

"  Can  you  ask  me  ?" 

"  I  mean,"  said  the  ungenerous  woman,  "  your  System 
tvill  require  no  further  sacrifices  from  either  of  them  ?  " 

Wlien  he  did  answer,  it  was  to  say :  "  I  think  her  alto- 
gether a  superior  person.  I  confess  I  should  scarcely  have 
hoped  to  find  one  like  her." 

"  Admit  that  your  science  does  not  accomplish  every- 
thing." 

"No:  it  was  presumptuous — beyond  a  certain  point," 
said  the  baronet,  meaning  deep  things. 

Lady  Blandish  eyed  him.  "Ab  me!"  she  sighed,  "if  Ave 
would  always  be  true  to  our  own  Avisdom  !" 

"  You  are  very  singular  to-night,  Emmeline."  Sir  Austin 
stopped  his  walk  in  front  of  her. 

In  truth,  was  she  not  unjust  ?  Here  was  an  offending  son 
freely  forgiven.  Here  was  a  young  Avoman  of  humble  bii-th 
freely  accepted  into  his  family  and  permitted  to  stand  upon 
her  qualities.  Who  would  have  done  more — eras  much? 
This  lady,  for  instance,  had  the  case  been  hers,  would  have 
fought  it.  All  the  people  of  position  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  would  have  fought  it,  and  that  without  feeling  it  so 
peculiarly.  But  while  the  baronet  thought  this,  he  did  not 
think  of  the  exceptional  education  his  son  had  received.  He 
took  the  common  ground  of  fathers,  forgetting  his  System 
when  it  was  absolutely  on  trial.  False  to  his  son  it  could 
not  be  said  that  he  had  been  :  false  to  his  System  he  AA'as. 
Others  saw  it  plainly,  but  he  had  to  learn  his  lesson  by 
and  by. 

Lady  Blandish  gave  him  her  face ;  then  stretched  her 
hand  to  the  table,  saying,  "  Well !  well !"  She  fingered  a 
half-opened  parcel  lying  there,  and  drew  forth  a  little  book 
she  recognized.     "  Ha!  what  is  this  ?"  she  said. 

"  Benson   returned   it   this    morning,"    he    informed   her. 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  455 

"  The  stupid  fellow  took  it  away  with  him — by  mischance, 
I  am  bound  to  believe." 

It  was  nothing  other  than  the  old  Note-book.  Lady 
Blandish  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  came  upon  the  later 
jottings. 

She  read  :  "  A  maker  of  Proverbs — what  is  he  but  a  narrow 
mind  the  mouthpiece  of  narrower  ?" 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  that,"  she  observed.  He  was  in  no 
humour  for  argument. 

"  Was  your  humility  feigned  when  you  wrote  it  ?" 

He  merely  said :  "  Consider  the  sort  of  minds  influenced 
by  set  sayings.  A  proverb  is  the  half-way-house  to  an  Idea, 
I  conceive  ;  and  the  majority  rest  thei-e  content :  can  the 
keeper  of  such  a  house  be  flattered  by  his  company  ?" 

She  felt  her  feminine  intelligence  swaying  under  him 
again.  There  must  be  greatness  in  a  man  who  could  thus 
speak  of  his  own  special  and  admirable  aptitude. 

Further  she  read,  "  Which  is  the  coward  among  us  ? — He 
who  sneers  at.  the  failings  of  Humanity  !" 

"  Oh  !  that  is  true  !  How  much  I  admire  that !"  cried  the 
dark-eyed  dame  as  she  beamed  intellectual  raptures. 

Another  Aphorism  seemed  closely  to  apply  to  him  :  "  There 
is  no  more  grievous  sight,  as  there  is  no  greater  perversion, 
than  a  wise  man  at  the  mercy  of  his  feelings." 

"  He  must  have  written  it,"  she  thought,  "  when  he  had 
himself  for  an  example — strange  man  that  he  is  !" 

Lady  Blandish  was  still  inclined  to  submission,  though 
decidedly  insubordinate.  She  had  once  been  fairly  con- 
quered :  but  if  what  she  reverenced  as  a  great  mind  could 
conquer  her,  it  must  be  a  great  man  that  should  hold  her 
captive.  The  Autumn  Primrose  blooms  for  the  loftiest 
manhood;  is  a  vindictive  flower  in  lesser  hands.  Never- 
theless Sir  Austin  had  only  to  be  successful,  and  this  lady's 
allegiance  was  his  for  ever.     The  trial  was  at  hand. 

She  said  again:  "He  is  not  coming  to-night,"  and  the 
baronet,  on  whose  visage  a  contemplative  pleased  look  had 
been  rising  for  a  minute  past,  quietly  added :  "  He  is 
come." 

Bichard's  voice  was  hep.rd  in  the  hall. 

There  was  commotion  all  over  the  house  at  the  return  of 
the  young  lieir.  Berry,  seizing  every  possible  occasion  to 
approach  his  Bessy  now  that  her  involuntary  coldness  had 


456  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

enhanced  her  valno — "  Snch  is  men!"  as  the  soft  wnmnn 
rotU'l'tod — BeiTj  ast-cnilrd  to  her  and  delivered  the  news  in 
pompous  tones  and  wlieedling  gestures.  "  Tlic  best  Avord 
you've  spoke  for  many  a  day,"  says  she,  and  leaves  him 
unfee'd,  in  an  attitude,  to  hurry  and  pour  bliss  into  Lucy's  ears. 

"  Lord  be  praised !"  she  entered  the  adjoining  room 
exclaiming,  "we're  goin'  to  be  happy  at  last.  They  men 
have  come  to  their  senses.  I  could  cry  to  your  Virgin  and 
kiss  3'our  Cross,  you  sweet !" 

"  Hush !"  Lucy  admonished  her,  and  crooned  over  the 
child  on  her  knees.  The  tiny  open  hands,  full  of  sleep, 
clutched  ;  the  large  blue  eyes  started  awake  ;  and  his  mother, 
all  trembling  and  palpitating,  knowing,  but  thirsting  to  hear 
it,  covered  him  with  her  tresses,  and  tried  to  still  her  frame, 
aud  rocked,  and  sang  low,  interdicting  even  a  whisper  from 
bursting  Mrs.  Berry. 

Richard  had  come.  He  was  under  his  father's  roof,  in  the 
old  home  that  had  so  soon  grown  foreign  to  him.  He  stood 
close  to  his  wife  and  child.  He  might  embrace  them  both  : 
and  now  the  fulness  of  his  anguish  and  the  madness  of  the 
thing  he  had  done  smote  the  young  man  :  now  first  he  tasted 
hard  earthly  misery. 

Had  not  Cod  spoken  to  him  in  the  tempest  ?  Had  not  the 
finger  of  heaven  directed  him  homeward  ?  And  he  had 
come  :  here  he  stood  :  congratulations  were  thick  in  his  ears  : 
the  cup  of  happiness  was  held  to  him,  and  he  was  invited 
to  drink  of  it.  Which  was  the  dream  ?  his  work  for  the 
morrow,  or  this  ?  But  for  a  leaden  load  he  felt  like  a  bullet 
in  his  breast,  he  might  have  thought  the  morrow  Avith  death 
sitting  on  it  was  the  dream.  Yes  ;  he  was  awake.  Now 
first  the  cloud  of  phantasms  cleared  away :  he  beheld  his 
real  life,  and  the  colours  of  true  human  joy :  and  on  the 
morrow  perhaps  he  was  to  close  his  eyes  on  them.  That 
leaden  bullet  dispersed  all  unrealities. 

They  stood  about  him  in  the  hall,  his  father,  Lady 
Blandish,  Mrs.  Doria,  Adrian,  Ripton ;  people  who  had 
known  him  long.  They  shook  his  hand  :  they  gave  him 
greetings  he  had  never  before  understood  the  worth  of  or 
the  meaning.  Now  that  he  did  they  mocked  him.  There 
was  Mrs.  Berry  in  the  background  bobbing,  there  was  Martin 
Berry  bowing,  there  was  Tom  Bakewell  grinning.  Som»>- 
how  he  loved  the  sij/ht  of  these  better. 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  457 

"  Ah,  my  old  Penelope !"  lie  said,  breaking'  tliroiip;'li  the 
circle  of  his  relatives  to  go  to  her,  "  so  you've  found  him  at 
last  ?  Tom  !  how  are  you  ?  Eerry  !  I  hope  you're  going  to 
behave  like  a  man." 

Berry  inclined  with  dignified  confusion,  and  drew  up  to 
man's  height — to  indicate  his  honourable  intentions,  let  us 
hope.  Tom  Bakewell  performed  a  motion  as  if  to  smear  his 
face  with  an  arm,  but  decided  on  making  his  ginn  vocal. 

"  Bless  ye,  my  Mr.  Richard,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Berry,  and 
whispered  rosily,  "  all's  agreeable  now.  She's  waiting  up 
in  bed  for  ye,  like  a  new-born." 

The  person  who  betrayed  most  agitation  was  Mrs.  Doria. 
She  held  close  to  him,  and  eagerly  studied  his  face  and  every 
movement,  as  one  accustomed  to  masks.  "  You  are  pale, 
Richard  ?"  He  pleaded  exhaustion.  "  What  detained  you, 
dear  ?"  "  Business,"  he  said.  She  drew  him  imperiously 
apart  from  the  others.  "  Richard  !  is  it  over  ?"  He  asked 
what  she  meant,  "  The  dreadful  duel,  Richard."  He  locked 
darkly.  "  Is  it  over  ?  is  it  done,  Richard  ?"  Getting  no 
immediate  answer,  she  continued — and  such  was  her  agita- 
tion that  the  words  were  shaken  by  pieces  from  her  mouth  : 
"  Don't  pretend  not  to  understand  me,  Richard  !  Is  it  over  ? 
Are  you  going  to  die  the  death  of  my  child — Clare's  death,? 
Is  not  one  in  a  family  enough  ?  Think  of  your  dear  young 
wife — we  love  her  so  ! — your  child  ! — your  father  !  Will 
you  kill  us  all  ?" 

Mrs.  Doria  had  chanced  to  overhear  a  trifle  of  Ripton's 
communication  to  Adrian,  and  had  built  thereon  with  the 
dark  forces  of  a  stricken  soul. 

Wondering  how  this  woman  could  have  divined  it,  Richard 
calmly  said  :  "  It's  arranged— the  matter  you  allude  to." 

"  Indeed  !  truly,  dear  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me  " — but  he  broke  away  from  her,  saying :  "  You 
shall  hear  the  particulars  to-morrow,"  and  she,  not  alive  to 
double  meaning  just  then,  allowed  him  to  leave  her. 

He  had  eaten  nothing  for  twelve  hours,  and  called  for 
food,  but  ho  would  take  only  dry  bread  and  claret,  which 
was  served  on  a  tray  in  the  library.  Ho  said,  without  any 
show  of  !!coling,  that  he  must  cat  before  ho  saw  the  younger 
hope  of  Raynham  :  so  there  he  sat,  breaking  bread,  and 
eating  great  mouthfuls,  and  washing  them  down  with  wino, 


458  THE  ORDEAL  OP  EICHARD  PEVEREL. 

talking  of  what  thcj  would.  His  father's  studious  mind  felt 
itself  years  behind  him,  lie  was  so  completely  altered.  Ue 
had  the  precision  of  speech,  the  bearing  of  a  man  of  thirty. 
Indeed  he  had  all  that  the  necessity  for  cloaking  an 
infinite  misery  gives.  But  let  things  be  as  they  might,  he 
was  there.  For  one  night  in  his  life  Sir  Austin's  perspective 
of  the  future  was  bounded  by  the  night. 

"  Will  you  go  to  your  wife  now  ?  "  he  had  asked,  and 
Richard  had  replied  with  a  strange  indifference.  The 
baronet  thought  it  better  that  their  meeting  should  be 
private,  and  sent  word  for  Lucy  to  wait  upstairs.  The 
others  perceived  that  father  and  son  should  now  be  left 
alone.  Adrian  went  up  to  him,  and  said :  "  I  can  no  longer 
■witness  this  painful  sight,  so  Good-night,  Sir  Famish !  You 
may  cheat  yourself  into  the  belief  that  you've  made  a  meal, 
but  depend  upon  it  your  progeny — and  it  threatens  to  be 
numerous — will  cry  aloud  and  rue  the  day.  Nature  never 
forgives  !  A  lost  dinner  can  never  be  replaced !  Good- 
night, my  dear  boy.  And  here — oblige  me  by  taking  this," 
he  handed  Richard  the  enormous  envelope  containing  what 
he  had  written  that  evening.  "  Credentials  !  "  he  exclaimed 
humourously,  slapping  Richard  on  the  shoulder.  Ripton. 
heai-d  also  the  words  "propagator — species,"  but  had  no 
idea  of  their  import.  The  wise  youth  looked :  You  see 
we've  made  matters  all  right  for  you  here,  and  quitted  the 
room  on  that  unusual  gleam  of  earnestness. 

Richard  shook  his  hand,  and  Ripton's.  Then  Lady 
Blandish  said  her  good-night,  praising  Lucy,  and  pi-oraising 
to  pray  for  their  mutual  happiness.  The  two  men  who 
knew  what  was  hanging  over  him,  spoke  together  outside. 
Ripton  was  for  getting  a  positive  assurance  that  the  duel 
would  not  be  fought,  but  Adrian  said :  "  Time  enough  to- 
morrow. He's  safe  enough  while  he's  here.  I'll  stop  it 
to-morrow : "  ending  with  banter  of  Ripton  and  allusions  to 
his  adventures  with  Miss  Random,  which  must,  Adrian  said, 
have  led  him  into  many  affairs  of  the  sort.  Certainly 
Richard  was  there,  and  while  he  was  there  he  must  be  safe. 
So  thought  Ripton,  and  went  to  his  bed.  Mrs.  Doria  de- 
liberated likewise,  and  likewise  thought  him  safe  while  he 
was  there.  For  once  in  her  life  she  thoiight  it  better  not  to 
trust  to  her  instinct,  for  fear  of  useless  distui'bance  where 
peace   should  be.     So  she  said  not  a  syllable  of  it  to  her 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  459 

brother.  She  only  looked  more  deeply  into  Richard's  eyes, 
as  she  kissed  him,  praising  Lucy.  "  I  have  found  a  second 
daughter  in  her,  dear.     Oh  !  may  you  both  be  happy  !  " 

They  all  praised  Lucy,  now.  His  father  commenced  the 
moment  they  were  alone.  "  Poor  Helen !  Yonr  wife  has 
been  a  great  comfort  to  her,  Richard.  I  think  Helen  must 
have  sunk  without  her.  So  lovely  a  young  person,  possess- 
ing mental  faculty,  and  a  conscience  for  her  duties,  I  have 
never  before  met." 

He  wished  to  gratify  his  son  by  these  eulogies  of  Lucy, 
and  some  hours  back  he  would  have  succeeded.  Now  it  had 
the  contrary  effect. 

"  You  compliment  me  on  my  choice,  sir  ?  " 

Richard  spoke  sedately,  but  the  irony  was  perceptible, 
and  he  could  speak  no  other  way,  his  bitterness  was  so 
intense. 

"  I  think  you  very  fortunate,"  said  his  father. 

Sensitive  to  tone  and  manner  as  he  was,  his  ebullition  of 
paternal  feeling  was  frozen.  Richard  did  not  approach  him. 
He  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  glancing  at  the  floor, 
and  lifting  his  eyes  only  when  he  spoke.  Fortunate  !  very 
fortunate !  As  he  revolved  his  later  history,  and  remem- 
bered how  clearly  he  had  seen  that  his  father  must  love 
Lucy  if  he  but  knew  her,  and  remembered  his  eiforts  to 
persuade  her  to  come  with  him,  a  sting  of  miserable  rage 
blackened  his  brain.  But  could  he  blame  that  gentle  soul  ? 
Whom  could  he  blame  ?  Himself  ?  Not  utterly.  His 
Father  ?  Yes,  and  no.  The  blame  was  here,  the  blame  was 
there :  it  was  everywhere  and  nowhere,  and  the  young  man 
cast  it  on  the  Fates,  and  looked  angrily  at  heaven,  aud  grew 
reckless. 

"  Richard,"  said  his  father,  coming  close  to  him,  "  it  is 
late  to-night.  I  do  not  wish  Lucy  to  remain  in  expectation 
longer,  or  I  should  have  explained  myself  to  you  thoroughl}', 
and  I  think — or  at  least  hope — you  would  have  justified  me. 
I  had  cause  to  believe  that  you  had  not  only  violated  my 
conlidence,  but  gi-ossly  deceived  me.  It  was  not  so,  I  now 
know.  I  was  mistaken.  Much  of  our  misunderstanding  has 
resulted  from  that  mistake.  But  you  were  married — a  boy  : 
you  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  little  of  yourself.  To  save 
vou  in  after-life — for  theie  is  a  pei-iod  when  mature  men 
and  women  who  have  mari-ied  young  are  more  impelled  to 


4(iO  THE  OKDKAL  OF  UICIIAKD  FEVEKEL. 

temptation  than  in  youth, — though  not  so  exposed  to  it, — to 
.vave  3'ou,  I  saj*,  I  decreed  that  you  slioukl  o\']iei'ience  self- 
denial  and  learn  something  of  your  fellows  of  both  sexes, 
before  settling  into  a  state  that  must  liave  been  otherwise 
precarious,  however  excellent  the  woman  who  is  your  mate. 
My  System  with  you  would  have  been  otherwise  imperfect, 
and  you  would  have  felt  the  effects  of  it.  It  is  over  now. 
You  are  a  man.  The  dangers  to  which  your  nature  was 
open  are,  I  trust,  at  an  end.  I  wish  you  to  be  happy,  and 
I  give  yon  both  my  blessing,  and  pray  God  to  conduct  and 
strengthen  you  both." 

Sir  Austin's  mind  was  unconscious  of  not  having  spoken 
devoutly.  True  or  not,  his  words  were  idle  to  his  son:  his 
talk  of  dangers  over,  and  happiness,  mockery. 

Richard  coldly  took  his  father's  extended  hand. 

"  We  will  go  to  her,"  said  the  baronet.  "  I  will  leave  you 
at  her  door." 

Not  moving :  looking  fixedly  at  his  father  -with  a  hard 
face  on  which  the  colour  rushed,  Richard  said :  "  A  husband 
who  has  been  unfaithful  to  his  wife  may  go  to  her  there, 
sir  ?  " 

It  was  hon-ible,  it  was  cruel :  it  was  uncalled  for — 
Richard  knew  that.  He  wanted  no  advice  on  such  a  matter, 
having  fully  ^-esolved  what  to  do.  Yesterday  he  would 
have  listened  to  his  father,  and  blamed  himself  alone,  and 
done  what  was  to  be  done  humbly  before  God  and  her:  now 
in  the  recklessness  of  his  misery  he  had  as  little  pity  for 
any  other  soul  as  for  his  own.  Sir  Austin's  brows  wei'e 
deep  drawn  down. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Richard  ?  " 

Clearly  his  intelligence  had  taken  it,  but  this — the  worst 
he  could  hear — this  that  he  had  dreaded  once  and  doubted, 
and  smoothed  over,  and  cast  aside — could  it  be  ?  " 

Richard  said :  "  I  told  you  all  but  the  very  words  when 
we  last  parted.  What  else  do  you  think  would  have  kept 
me  from  her  ?  " 

Angered  at  his  callous  aspect,  his  father  cried :  "  What 
brings  you  to  her  now  ?  " 

"  That  will  be  between  us  two,"  was  the  reply. 

Sir  Austin  fell  into  his  chair.  Meditation  was  impossible. 
He  spoke  from  a  wrathful  heart :  "  You  will  not  dare  to  take 
her  without " 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  4G1 

"  No,  sir,"  Ricliard  interrupted  him,  "I  shall  not.  Have 
no  fear." 

"  Then  you  did  not  love  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  ?  "  A  smile  passed  faintly  over  Richard's 
face. 

"  Did  you  care  so  much  for  this— this  other  person  ?  " 

"  So  much  ?  If  you  ask  me  whether  1  had  affection  for 
her,  I  can  say  I  had  none." 

0  base  human  nature !  Then  how  ?  then  why  ?  A 
thousand  questions  rose  in  the  baronet's  mind.  Bessy  Berry 
could  have  answered  them  every  one. 

"  Poor  child !  poor  chiM  !  "  he  apostrophized  Lucy, 
pacing  the  room.  Thinking-  of  her,  knowing  her  deep  love 
for  his  son — her  true  forgiving  heart — it  seemed  she  should 
be  spared  this  misery. 

He  proposed  to  Richard  to  spare  her.  Vast  is  the  distinc- 
tion between  women  and  men  in  this  one  sin,  he  said,  and 
supported  it  with  physical  and  moral  citations.  His  argu- 
ment carried  him  so  far  that  to  hear  him  one  would  have 
imagined  he  thought  the  sin  in  men  small  indeed.  His 
"words  were  idle. 

"  She  must  know  it,"  said  Richard  sternly.  "I  will  go  to 
her  now,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Sir  Austin  detained  him,  expostulated,  contradicted  him- 
self, confounded  his  principles,  made  nonsense  of  all  his 
theories.  He  could  not  induce  his  son  to  waver  in  his 
resolve.  Ultimately,  their  good-night  being  interchanged, 
he  understood  that  the  happiness  of  Raynham  depended  on 
Lucy's  mercy.  He  had  no  fears  of  her  sweet  heart,  but  it 
was  a  strange  thing  to  have  come  to.  On  which  should  the 
accusation  fall — on  science,  or  on  human  natui'e  ? 

He  remained  in  the  library  pondering  over  the  question, 
at  times  breathing  contempt  for  his  son,  and  again  seized 
with  unwonted  suspicion  of  his  own  wisdom :  troubled, 
much  to  be  pitied,  even  if  he  deserved  that  blow  from  his 
Bon  which  had  plunged  him  into  wretchedness. 

Richard  went  straight  to  Tom  Bakewell,  roused  the  heavy 
sleeper,  and  told  him  to  have  his  mare  saddled  and  waiting 
at  the  park  gates  East  witliin  an  hour.  Tom's  nearest 
approach  to  a  hero  was  to  be  a  faithful  slave  to  his 
master,  and  in  doing  this  he  acted  to  his  conception  of  that 
high   and   glorious    chaiacter.     He   got    up   and    heroicall/ 


4fi2  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEKEL. 

dashed  liis  head  into  cold  water.  "  She  shall  bo  ready,  sir," 
Le  nudded. 

"  Tom  !  if  you  don't  see  me  back  here  at  Raynham,  your 
money  will  go  on  being  ])aid  to  you." 

"  Rather  see  you  than  the  money,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  Tom. 

"And  you  will  always  watch  and  sec  no  harm  comes  to 
her,  Tom." 

"Mrs.  Richard,  sir?"  Tom  stared.  "God  bless  me,  Mr. 
Richard" 

"  No  questions.     You'll  do  what  I  say." 

"  Ay,  sir  ;  that  I  will.     Did'n  Isle  o'  "Wight." 

The  very  name  of  the  island  shocked  Richard's  blood,  and 
he  had  to  walk  up  and  dovm  before  he  could  knock  at  Lucy's 
door.  That  infamous  conspii-acy  to  which  he  owed  his 
degradation  and  misei^y  scarce  left  him  the  feelings  of  a  man 
when  he  thought  of  it. 

The  soft  beloved  voice  respoBded  to  his  knock.  He  opened 
the  door,  and  stood  before  her.  Lucy  was  half-way  toward 
him.  In  the  moment  that  passed  ere  she  was  in  his  arms, 
he  had  time  to  observe  the  change  in  her.  He  had  left  her 
a  girl  :  he  beheld  a  woman — a  blooming  woman :  for  pale  at 
fii'st,  no  sooner  did  she  see  him  than  the  colour  was  rich  and 
deep  on  her  face  and  neck  and  bosom  half  shown  throug-h 
the  loose  dressing-robe,  and  the  sense  of  her  exceeding  beauty 
made  his  heart  thump  and  his  eyes  swim. 

"  My  darling  !  "  each  cried,  and  they  clung  together,  and 
her  mouth  was  fastened  on  his. 

They  spoke  no  more.  His  soul  was  drowned  in  her  kiss. 
Supporting  her,  whose  strength  was  gone,  he,  almost  as  w^eak 
as  she,  hung  over  her,  and  clasped  her  closer,  closer,  till  they 
were  as  one  body,  and  in  the  oblivion  her  lips  put  upon  him 
he  was  free  to  the  bliss  of  her  embrace.  Heaven  granted  him 
that.  He  placed  her  in  a  chair  and  knelt  at  her  feet  with 
both  arms  around  her.  Her  bosom  heaved ;  her  eyes  never 
quitted  him :  their  light  as  the  light  on  a  rolling  wave. 
This  young  creature,  commonly  so  frank  and  straightfor- 
ward, was  broken  with  bashfulness  in  her  husband's  arms — • 
womanly  bashfulness  on  the  torrent  of  womanly  love ;  ten- 
fold more  seductive  than  the  bashfulness  of  girlhood. 
Terrible  tenfold  the  loss  of  her  seemed  now,  as  distantly — 
far  on  the  horizon  of  memory — the  fatal  truth  returned  to 
him. 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  463 

Lose  her  ?  lose  tliis  ?  He  looked  tip  as  if  to  as"k  God  to 
confirm  it. 

The  same  sweet  blue  eyes  !  the  eyes  that  he  had  often  seen 
in  the  dying  glories  of  evening  ;  on  him  they  dwelt,  shifting, 
and  fluttering,  aud  glittering,  but  constant :  the  light  of 
them  as  the  light  on  a  rolling  wave. 

And  true  to  him !  true,  good,  glorious,  as  the  angels  of 
heaven !  And  his  she  was !  a  woman — his  wife !  The 
temptation  to  take  her,  and  be  dumb,  was  all  powerful :  the 
wish  to  die  against  her  bosom  so  strong  as  to  be  the  prayer 
of  his  vital  forces.  Again  he  strained  her  to  him,  but  this 
time  it  was  as  a  robber  grasps  priceless  treasure — with  fierce 
exultation  and  defiance.  One  instant  of  this.  Lucy,  whoso 
pure  tenderness  had  now  surmounted  the  first  wild  passion 
of  their  meeting,  bent  back  her  head  fi'om  her  surrendered 
body,  and  said  almost  voicelessly,  her  underlids  wistfully 
quivering  :  "  Come  and  see  him — baby  ;"  and  then  in  great 
hope  of  the  happiness  she  was  going  to  give  her  husband, 
and  share  with  him,  and  in  tremour  and  doubt  of  what  his 
feeliugs  would  be,  she  blushed,  and  her  brows  worked :  she 
tried  to  throw  oft"  the  strangeness  of  a  year  of  separation, 
misunderstanding,  and  uncei-tainty. 

"  Darling !  come  and  see  him.  He  is  here."  She  spoke 
more  clearly,  though  no  louder. 

Richard  had  released  her,  and  she  took  his  hand,  and  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  His 
heart  began  rapidly  tln'obbing  at  the  sight  of  a  little  rosy- 
curtained  cot  covered  with  lace  like  milky  summer  cloud. 

It  seemed  to  him  he  would  lose  his  manhood  if  he  looked 
on  that  child's  face. 

"  Stop  !"  he  cried  suddenly. 

Lucy  turned  first  to  him,  and  then  to  her  infant,  fearing  it 
should  have  been  disturbed. 

"  Lucy,  come  back." 

"  What  is  it,  darling?"  said  she,  in  alarm  at  his  voice  and 
the  grip  he  had  unwittingly  given  her  hand. 

0  God  !  what  an  Oi-dcal  was  this  !  that  to-morrow  he  must 
face  death,  perhaps  die  and  be  torn  from  his  darling — his 
wife  and  his  child;  and  tliat  ere  he  went  forth,  ere  ho  could 
dare  to  see  his  child  and  lean  his  head  reproachfully  on  his 
young  wife's  breast — for  the  last  time,  it  might  be — lie  must 
stab  her  to  the  heart,  shatter  the  image  she  held  of  him. 


404  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICnARD  FEVEREL. 

"  Lucy !"  She  saw  him  wrenched  with  at^ony,  and  her 
own  face  took  the  whiteness  of  his — she  bending  forward  to 
him,  all  her  faculties  strung  to  hearing. 

He  held  her  two  hands  that  she  might  look  on  him  and  not 
spare  the  horrible  wound  he  was  going  to  lay  open  to  her 
eyes. 

*'  Lucy.     Do  you  know  why  I  came  to  you  to-night  ?  " 

She  moved  her  lips  repeating  his  words. 

"  Lucy.     Have  you  guessed  why  I  did  not  come  before  ?  " 

Her  head  shook  widened  eyes. 

"  Lucy.  I  did  not  come  because  I  was  not  worthy  of  my 
wife  !     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Again  the  widened  eyes  were  shaken  negatively. 

"  You  do  not  ?  " 

"  Darling,"  she  faltered  plaintively,  and  hung  crouching 
under  him,  "  what  have  I  done  to  make  you  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  0  beloved  ! "  cried  he,  the  tears  bursting  out  of  his  eyes. 
"  0  beloved  1 "  was  all  he  could  say,  kissing  her  hands  pas- 
sionately. 

She  waited,  reassured,  but  in  terror. 

"  Lucy.  I  stayed  away  from  you — I  could  not  come  to 
you,  because  ...  I  dared  not  come  to  you,  my  wife,  my  be- 
loved !  I  could  not  come  because  I  was  a  coward :  because 
■ — hear  me — this  was  the  reason  :  I  have  broken  my  marriage 
oath." 

Again  her  lips  moved  repeating  his  words.  She  caught 
at  a  dim  fleshless  meaning  in  them.  "  But  you  love  me  ? 
Richard  !     My  husband  !  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  never  loved,  I  never  shall  love,  woman  but 
you." 

"  Darling  !     Kiss  me." 

"  Have  you  understood  what  I  have  told  you  ?  " 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  join  lips.  "  I  have  come  to  you  to-night  to  a«k 
your  forgiveness." 

Her  answer  was  :  "  Kiss  me." 

"  Can  you  forgive  a  man  so  base  ?  " 

"  But  you  love  me,  Richard  ?  " 

*'  Yes  :  that  I  can  say  before  God.  I  love  you,  and  I  have 
bet  raved  yon,  and  am  unworthy  of  you — not  wox'thy  to  touch 
your  hand,  to  kneel  at  your  feet,  to  breathe  the  same  air  with 
you." 


THS  LAST  SCEini!.  465 

Her  eyes  shone  brilliantly.  "You  love  me!  yon  lore  me, 
dai'ling!"  And  as  one  who  has  sailed  tlirougli  dai'k  fenra 
into  daylight,  she  said:  "My  husband!  my  darling!  you 
will  never  leave  me  ?     "We  never  shall  be  parted  again  ?" 

He  drew  his  breath  painfully.  To  smooth  her  face  grow- 
ing rigid  with  frcp.h  fears  at  his  silence,  he  met  her  mouth. 
That  kiss  in  which  .eihe  spoke  what  her  soul  had  to  say, 
palmed  her,  and  she  smiled  happily  from  it,  and  in  her  man- 
ner reminded  him  of  his  first  vision  of  her  on  the  summer 
niorning  in  the  field  of  the  meadow-sweet.  He  held  her  to 
liim,  and  thought  then  of  a  holier  picture  :  of  Mother  and 
Child:  of  the  sweet  wonders  of  life  she  had  made  real  to 
him. 

Had  he  not  absolved  his  conscience  ?  At  least  the  pangs 
to  come  made  him  think  so.  He  now  followed  her  leading 
hand.  Lucy  whispered  :  "  You  mustn't  disturb  him — • 
mustn't  touch  him,  dear!  "  and  with  dainty  fingers  drew  off 
the  covering  to  the  little  shoulder.  One  arm  of  the  child 
was  out  along  the  pillow  ;  the  small  hand  open.  His  baby- 
mouth  was  pouted  full ;  the  dark  lashes  of  his  eyes  seemed 
to  lie  on  his  plump  cheeks.  Richard  stooped  lower  down  to 
him,  hungering  for  some  movement  as  a  sign  that  he  lived. 
Lucy  whispered.  "  He  sleeps  like  yoa,  Richard — one  arra 
under  his  head."  Great  wonder,  and  the  stir  of  a  grasping 
tenderness  was  in  Richard.  He  breathed  quick  and  soft, 
bending  lower,  till  Lucy's  curls,  as  she  nestled  and  bent  with 
liim,  rolled  on  the  crimson  quilt  of  the  cot.  A  smile  went 
up  the  plump  cheeks  :  forthwith  the  bud  of  a  mouth  was  in 
rapid  motion.  The  young  mother  whispered,  blushing : 
*'  He's  dreaming  of  me,"  and  the  simple  words  did  more  than 
Richard's  eyes  to  make  him  see  what  was.  Then  Lucy 
began  to  hum  and  buzz  sweet  baby-language,  and  some  of 
the  tiny  fingers  stirred,  and  he  made  as  if  to  change  his  cosy 
pf)sition,  but  reconsidered,  and  deferred  it,  with  a  peaceful 
little  sigh.  Lucy  whispered:  "He  is  such  a  big  fellow. 
Oh  !  when  you  see  him  awake  he  is  so  like  you,  Richard." 
He  did  not  hear  her  immediately :  it  seemed  a  bit  of  luniven 
di-op])ed  there  in  his  likeness:  the  more  human  the  fact  of 
till'  child  gi-ew  the  more  heavenly  it  seemed.  His  son!  liis 
child  !  should  he  ever  see  him  awake  ?  At  the  thought  he 
took  the  words  that  had  b('(!n  spoken,  and  started  fi'um  the 
dream  Ik;  had  been  in.     "  W^ill  he  wake  soon,  Lucy  ?" 

2  u 


iCtfy  THE  ORDEAL  OP  laCllAKP  FKVEREL. 

"  Oh  no!  not  yet,  dear:  not  foi-  hours.  I  vvonUI  have  kept 
him  awake  for  yon,  but  he  was  so  sleepy." 

Kichai'd  stood  back  iVoiu  the  cot.  lie  thought  that  if  ho 
saw  tlie  eyes  of  his  boy,  and  had  him  once  on  his  heart,  ho 
never  shoukl  have  force  to  leave  him.  Then  he  looked  down 
on  him,a'4ain  struggled  to  tear  himself  away.  Two  natures 
warred  in  his  bosom,  or  it  may  have  been  the  Magian  Conflict 
still  going  on.  He  had  come  to  see  his  child  once  and  to 
make  peace  with  his  wife  before  it  should  be  too  late.  Might 
he  not  stop  with  them  ?  Might  he  not  relinquish  that 
devilish  pledge  ?  Was  not  divine  happiness  here  offered  to 
him  ? — If  foolish  Ripton  had  not  delayed  to  tell  him  of  his 
interview  with  Mountfalcon  all  might  have  been  well.  But 
pride  said  it  was  impossible.  And  then  injury  spoke.  For 
why  was  he  thus  base  and  spotted  to  the  darling  of  his  love  ? 
A  mad  pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  wreaking  vengeance  on 
the  villain  who  had  laid  the  trap  for  him,  once  more  blackened 
his  brain.  If  he  would  stay  he  could  not.  So  he  resolved, 
throwing  the  burden  on  Fate.  The  sti-uggle  was  over,  but 
oh,  the  pain  !  Lucy  beheld  the  tears  streaming  hot  from  his 
face  on  the  child's  cot.  She  marvelled  at  such  excess  of 
emotion.  But  when  his  chest  heaved,  and  the  extremity  of 
mortal  anguish  appeared  to  have  seized  him,  her  heart  sank, 
and  she  tried  to  get  him  in  her  arms.  He  turned  away 
from  her  and  went  to  the  window.  A  half-moon  was  over 
the  lake. 

"  Look  !"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  our  rowing  there  one 
night,  and  we  saw  the  shadow  of  the  cypress  ?  I  wish  I  could 
have  come  early  to-night  that  we  might  have  had  another 
row,  and  I  have  heard  you  sing  there  !" 

"  Darling!"  said  she,  "will  it  make  you  happier  if  I  go 
with  you  now  ?     I  will." 

"No,  Lucy.     Lucy,  you  are  brave  !" 

"  Oh,  no  !  that  I'm  not.  I  thought  so  once.  I  know  I  am 
not  now." 

"  "i'es  !  to  have  lived — the  child  on  your  heart — aiid  never 
to  have  uttered  a  complaint ! — you  are  brave.  0  my  Lucy  I 
my  wife!  you  that  have  made  me  man!  T  called  you  a 
coward.  I  remember  it.  I  was  the  coward — I  the  wretched 
vain  fool !  Darling  !  I  am  going  to  leave  you  now.  You  are 
brave,  and  you  will  bear  it.  Listen  •  in  two  days,  or  three, 
I    maj  be  back — back  for  ^ood,   if  jou  will   accept   me. 


THE  LAST  SCENE.  467 

Promise  me  to  go  to  bed  quietly.  Kiss  the  child  for  me, 
and  tell  him  his  father  has  seen  him.  He  will  learn  to  speak 
800U.     Will  he  soon  speak,  Lucy  ?" 

Dreadful  suspicion  kept  her  speechless ;  she  could  only 
clutch  one  arm  of  his  with  both  her  hands. 

"  Going  ?"  she  presently  gasped. 

"  For  two  or  three  days.     No  more — I  hope.** 

«  To-night  ?" 

"Yes.     Now." 

"  Going  now  ?  my  husband !"  her  faculties  abandoned 
her. 

"  You  will  be  brave,  my  Lucy  !" 

"  Richard  !  my  darling  husband  !  Going  ?  "What  is  it 
takes  you  from  me  ?"  But  questioning  no  further,  she  fell 
on  her  knees,  and  cried  piteously  to  him  to  stay — not  to  leave 
them.  Then  she  dragged  him  to  the  little  sleeper,  and  urged 
him  to  pray  by  his  side,  and  he  did,  but  rose  abruptly  from 
his  prayer  when  he  had  muttered  a  few  broken  words — she 
praying  on  with  tight-strung  nerves  in  the  faith  that  what 
she  said  to  the  interceding  Mother  above  would  be  stronger 
than  human  hands  on  him.  Nor  could  he  go  while  slie 
knelt  there. 

And  he  wavered.  He  had  not  reckoned  on  her  terrible 
suffering.  She  came  to  him,  quiet.  "  I  knew  you  would 
remain."  And  taking  his  hand,  innocently  fondling  it :  "  Am 
I  so  changed  from  her  he  loved  ?  You  will  not  leave  me, 
dear  ?"  But  dread  returned,  and  the  words  quavered  as  she 
spoke  them. 

He  was  almost  vanquished  by  the  loveliness  of  her  woman- 
hood. She  drew  his  hand  to  her  heart,  and  strained  it  there 
under  one  breast.  "  Come  :  lie  on  my  heart,"  she  murmured 
with  a  smile  of  holy  sweetness. 

He  wavered  more,  and  drooped  to  her,  but  summoning 
the  powers  of  hell,  kissed  her  suddenly,  cried  the  words  of 
parting,  and  hurried  to  the  door.  It  was  over  in  an  instant. 
She  cried  out  his  name,  clinging  to  him  wildly,  and  was 
adjured  to  be  brave,  for  ho  would  be  dishonoured  if  ho  did 
not  go.     Then  she  was  shaken  off. 

Mrs.  Berry  was  ai'oused  by  an  unusual  prolonged  wailing  of 
the  child,  which  sliowed  that  no  one  was  comforting  it,  and 
failing  to  get  any  answer  to  her  apydieations  for  adniittanoo, 
she  made  bold  to  cuter.     There  she  saw  Lucy,  tlie  child  iu 


4()f<  THE  oi:i>i:ai,  of  riciiakd  i'i:vi;i;rL. 

hor  lap,  Ki'ttinir  on  tlio  floor  sonsolosa : — slic  hnd  talcoTi  it 
from  its  sloep  and  tried  to  follow  lu-i-  liiishaiul  m  itii  it  as  lier 
stroiiLTost  ajijical  to  him,  and  had  fainted. 

"  Oil  my  !  Oh  my  !"  Mrs.  Ik-rry  moaned,  "and  I  just  now 
thinkin'  they  was  so  hapjiy  !" 

Warminjjf  and  caressing  the  poor  infant  she  managed  by 
degrees  to  revive  Lucy,  and  beard  wbat  bad  brought  ber  to 
that  situation. 

"Go  to  bis  father,"  said  Mrs.  Berry.  "  Ta-te-tiddle-te- 
beighty-0  !  Go,  my  love,  and  every  horse  in  Raynbam  shall 
be  out  after  'm.  This  is  what  men  brings  us  to  !  Heighty- 
oigbty-iddlcty-Ab !      Or   you   take    blessed   baby,  and  I'll 

Tbe  baronet  himself  knocked  at  the  door.  "  Wbat  is 
this  ?"  be  said.     "  I  beard  a  noise  and  a  step  descend." 

"  It's  !Mr.  Richard  have  gone.  Sir  Austin  !  have  gone  from 
his  wife  and  babe !  Rum-te-um-te-iddledy — Ob,  my  good- 
ness !  what  sorrow's  come  on  us  !"  and  Mrs.  Berry  wept,  and 
Bang  to  baby,  and  baby  cried  vehemently,  and  Lucy,  sobbing, 
took  him  and  danced  him  and  sang  to  bim  with  drawn  lips 
and  tears  dropping  over  him.  And  if  the  Scientific  Humanist 
to  the  day  of  bis  death  forgets  tbe  sight  of  those  two  poor 
true  women  jigging  on  their  wretched  hearts  to  calm  tbe 
child,  he  must  have  very  little  of  the  human  in  him. 

There  was  no  more  sleep  for  Raynbam  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

LADY  BLANDISH  TO  AUSTIN  WENTWORTH. 

His  ordeal  is  over.  I  have  just  come  from  his  room  and 
seen  him  bear  the  worst  that  could  be.  Return  at  once — 
he  has  asked  for  you.  I  can  hardly  write  intelligibly,  but  I 
■will  tell  you  what  we  know. 

"  Two  days  after  the  dreadful  night  when  he  left  us,  his 
father  heard  from  Ralph  Morton.  Richard  bad  fought  a 
duel  in  France  with  Lord  Mountfalcon,  and  was  lying 
•wounded  at  a  hamlet  on  the  coast.  His  father  started 
immediately  with  his  poor  wife,  and  I  followed  in  company 
with  his  aunt  and  his  child.     Tbe  wound  was  not  dangerous. 


LADY  BLANDISH  TO  AUSTIN  WENTWORTH  4G9 

He  -^MS  sliot  in  the  side  somewhere,  but  the  ball  iniured  ns 
vital  ^art.  We  thought  all  would  be  well.  Oh  !  how  sick 
1  am  k.l  theories,  and  Systems,  and  the  pretensions  of  men  ! 
There  was  his  son  lying  all  but  dead,  and  the  man  was  still 
unconvinced  of  the  folly  he  had  .been  guilty  of.  I  could 
hardly  bear  the  sight  of  his  composure.  I  shall  hate  the 
name  of  Science  till  the  day  I  die.  Give  me  nothing  but 
commonplace  unpretending  people ! 

"  They  were  at  a  wretched  French  cabaret,  smelling 
vilely,  where  we  still  remain,  and  the  people  try  as  much 
as  they  can  do  to  compensate  for  our  discomforts  by  their 
kindness.  The  French  poor  people  are  very  considerate 
where  they  see  suffering.  I  will  say  that  for  them.  The 
doctors  had  not  allowed  his  poor  Lucy  to  go  near  him. 
She  sat  outside  his  door,  and  none  of  us  dared  distui'b 
her.  That  was  a  sight  for  Science.  His  father  and  myself, 
and  Mrs.  Berry,  were  the  only  ones  permitted  to  wait  on 
him,  and  whenever  we  came  out,  there  she  sat,  not 
speaking  a  word — for  she  had  been  told  it  would  endanger 
his  life— but  she  looked  such  awful  eagerness.  She  had 
the  sort  of  eye  I  fancy  mad  persons  have.  I  was  sure 
her  reason  was  going.  We  did  everything  we  could  think  of 
to  comfort  her.  A  bed  was  made  up  for  her  and  her  meals 
were  brought  to  her  there.  Of  course  there  was  no  getting 
her  to  eat.  What  do  you  suppose  Ids  alarm  was  fixed  on  ? 
He  absolutely  said  to  me — but  I  have  not  patience  to  repeat 
his  words.  He  thought  her  to  blame  for  not  commanding 
herself  for  the  sake  of  her  maternal  duties.  He  had  abso- 
lutely an  idea  of  insisting  that  she  should  make  an  effort  to 
suckle  the  child.  I  shall  love  that  Mrs.  Berry  to  the  end  of 
my  days.  I  really  believe  she  has  twice  the  sense  of  any  of 
ns — Science  and  all.  She  asked  him  plainly  if  he  wished  to 
poison  the  child,  and  then  he  gave  way,  but  with  a  bad  grace. 

"  Poor  man  !  ]icT'ha]is  I  am  hard  on  him.  I  remember 
that  you  said  Richard  had  done  wrong.  Yes  ;  well,  that 
may  be.  But  his  father  eclipsed  his  wrong  in  a  greater 
wrong — a  crime,  or  quite  as  bad  ;  for  if  ho  deceived  himself 
in  the  belief  that  he  was  acting  righteously  in  separating 
husband  and  wife,  and  exposing  his  son  as  he  did  I  can  only 
say  that  there  are  some  who  are  worse  than  people  who 
deliberately  commit  crimes.  No  doubt  science  will  beneiit 
by  it.     They  kill  little  animals  for  the  sake  of  scieuco. 


470  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 

"  We  have  with  ns  Doctor  Bairam,  and  a  French  physician 
from  Dieppe,  a  very  skilful  man.  It  was  lie  who  told  us 
where  the  real  danr^er  lay.  We  thought  all  would  bo  well. 
A  week  had  passed,  and  no  fever  supervened.  Wo  told 
Richard  that  his  wife  was  coming  to  him,  and  he  could  bear 
to  hear  it.  I  went  to  her  and  began  to  circumlocute,  think- 
ing she  listened — she  had  the  same  eager  look.  When  I  told 
her  she  might  go  in  with  me  to  see  her  dear  husband,  her 
features  did  not  change.  M.  Despres,  who  held  her  pulse 
at  the  time,  told  me,  in  a  whisper,  it  was  cerebral  fever — 
brain  fever  coming  on.  We  have  talked  of  her  since.  I 
noticed  that  though  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  me,  her 
bosom  heaved,  and  she  appeared  to  be  trying  to  repress  it, 
and  choke  something.  I  am  sure  now,  from  what  I  know  of 
her  character,  that  she — even  in  the  approaches  of  delirium 
— was  preventing  herself  from  crying  out.  Her  last  hold  of 
reason  was  a  thought  for  llichard.  It  was  against  a  creature 
like  this  that  we  plotted  !  I  have  the  comfort  of  knowing 
that  I  did  my  share  in  helping  to  destroy  her.  Had  she 
seen  her  husband  a  day  or  two  before — but  no !  there  was  a 
new  System  to  interdict  that !  Or  had  she  not  so  violently 
controlled  her  nature  as  she  did,  I  believe  she  might  have 
been  saved. 

"  He  said  once  of  a  man,  that  his  conscience  was  a  cox- 
comb.  Will  you  believe  that  when  he  saw  his  son's  wife — 
poor  victim  !  lying  delirious,  he  could  not  even  then  see  his 
error.  You  said  he  wished  to  take  Providence  out  of  God's 
hands.  His  mad  self-deceit  would  not  leave  him.  I  am 
positive  that,  while  he  was  standing  over  her,  he  was  blam- 
ing her  for  not  having  considered  the  child.  Indeed  he 
made  a  remark  to  me  that  it  was  unfortunate — '  disastrous,' 
I  think  he  said — that  the  child  should  have  to  be  fed  by 
hand.  I  dare  say  it  is.  All  I  pray  is  that  this  young  child 
may  be  saved  from  him.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  him  look  on 
it.  He  does  not  spare  himself  bodily  fatigue — ^but  what  is 
that  ?  that  is  the  vulgarest  form  of  love.  I  know  what  you 
will  say.  You  will  say  I  have  lost  all  charity,  and  I  have. 
But  I  should  not  feel  so,  Austin,  if  I  could  be  quite  sure  that 
he  is  an  altered  man  even  now  the  blow  has  struck  him.  He 
is  reserved  and  simple  in  his  speech  .and  his  grief  is  evident, 
but  I  have  doubts.  He  heard  her  while  she  was  senseless 
call  him  cruel  and  hai'sh,  and  cry  that  she  had  suffered,  and 


LADY  BLANDISH  TO  AUSTIN  WENTWORTH.  471 

I  saw  then  his  mouth  contract  as  if  he  had  been  touched. 
Perhaps,  when  he  thinks,  his  mind  will  be  clearer,  but  what 
he  has  done  cannot  be  undone.  I  do  not  imagine  he  will 
abuse  women  any  more.  The  doctor  called  her  a  '  forte  et 
belle  jeune  femme  :  '  and  lie  said  she  was  as  noble  a  soul  as 
ever  God  moulded  clay  upon.  A  noble  soul  '  forte  et  belle  !  * 
She  lies  upstairs.  If  he  can  look  on  her  and  not  see  his  sin^ 
I  almost  fear  God  will  never  enlighten  him. 

"  She  died  five  days  after  she  had  been  removed.  The 
shock  had  utterly  deranged  her.  I  was  with  her.  Sh,e  died 
very  quietly,  breathing  her  last  breath  without  pain — asking 
for  no  one — a  death  I  should  like  to  die. 

"  Her  cries  at  one  time  were  dreadfully  loud.  Sho 
screamed  that  she  was  '  di-owning  in  fii-e,'  and  that  her  hus- 
band would  not  come  to  her  to  save  her.  We  deadened  the 
sound  as  much  as  we  could,  but  it  was  impossible  to  prevent 
Richard  from  hearing.  He  knew  her  voice,  and  it  pi'oduced 
an  effect  like  fever  on  him.  Whenever  she  called  ha 
answered.  You  could  not  hear  them  without  weeping. 
Mrs.  Berry  sat  with  her,  Siud  I  sat  with  him,  and  his  father 
moved  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  But  the  trial  for  us  came  when  she  was  gone.  How  to 
communicate  it  to  Richard — or  whether  to  do  so  at  all  !  His 
father  consulted  with  us.  We  were  quite  decided  that  it 
would  be  madness  to  bi-eathe  it  while  he  was  in  that  state, 
I  can  admit  now — as  things  have  turned  out — we  were 
wrong.  His  father  left  us — I  believe  he  spent  the  time  in 
prayer — and  then  leaning  on  me,  he  went  to  Richard,  and 
said  in  so  many  words,  that  his  Lucy  was  no  more.  I 
thought  it  must  kill  him.  He  listened,  and  smiled.  I  never 
saw  a  smile  so  sweet  and  so  sad.  He  said  he  had  seen  her 
die,  as  if  he  had  passed  through  his  suffering  a  long  time 
ago.  He  shut  his  eyes.  I  could  see  by  the  motion  of  his 
eyeballs  up  that  he  was  straining  his  sight  to  some  inner 
heaven. — I  cannot  go  on. 

"  I  think  Richard  is  safe.  Had  we  postponed  the  tidings, 
till  he  came  to  his  clear  senses,  it  must  have  killed  him. 
His  father  was  right  for  once,  then.  But  if  he  has  saved  his 
son's  body,  he  has  given  the  death-blow  to  his  heart.  Richard 
will  never  be  what  he  promised. 

"A  letter  found  on  his  clothes  tells  us  the  origin  of  the 
quarrel.     I  have  had  an  interview  with  Lord  M.  this  moru- 


472  THE  ORDEAL  OP  RICHARD  PEVEREL. 

iniT.  I  cnnnot  say  I  tlu'nlc  liim  exactly  to  blame:  RicTiard 
foircd  him  to  tight.  At  least  1  do  not  select  him  t\w  fore- 
most for  blame.  lie  was  deeply  and  sincerely  aflectc'd  by 
the  calamity  he  has  caused.  Alas !  he  was  only  an  instru- 
ment. Your  poor  aunt  is  utterly  prostrate  and  talks  strange 
things  of  her  dautrhter's  death.  She  is  only  happy  in 
ilrnilijing.  Dr.  Bairam  says  we  must  under  any  circum- 
stances keep  her  employed.  Whilst  she  is  doing  something, 
she  can  chat  freely,  but  the  moment  her  hands  are  not  occu- 
pied sJie  gives  me  an  idea  that  she  is  going  into  a  fit. 

"  We  expect  the  dear  child's  uncle  to-day.  ilr.  Thompson 
is  here.  I  have  taken  him  upstairs  to  look  at  her.  That 
poor  young  man  has  a  true  heai-t. 

''  Come  at  once.  You  will  not  be  in  time  to  see  her.  She 
will  lie  at  Kaynhara.  If  you  could  you  would  see  an  angel. 
Jfe  sits  by  her  side  for  hours.  I  can  give  you  no  description 
of  her  beauty. 

"  You  will  not  delay,  I  know,  dear  Austin,  and  I  want 
you,  foi'  your  presence  will  make  me  more  charitable  than 
1  (iiid  it  possible  to  be.  Have  you  noticed  the  expression 
in  tlie  eyes  of  blind  men  ?  That  is  just  how  Richard  looks, 
US  lie  lie-s  there  silent  in  his  bed — striving  to  image  her  on 
his  biuin." 


THE  ENDb 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


THE  PILGRIMS  SCRIP; 


WIT  m  WISDOM  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

With  Selections  from  his  Poetry,  a  Critical  and  Biogra- 
phical Introduction,  and  a  Portrait.  Square  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  $1.00. 


It  has  taken  a  long  time  for  the  world  to  appreciate  George  Meredith, 
to  even  understand  him ;  but  to-day  the  recognition  of  him  has  come,  and 
there  is  no  question  but  that  he  vvill  be  fully  remembered  and  live  among 
the  romance  writers  of  the  last  half  of  the  present  century.  For  spiritual 
philosophy  and  golden  wisdom  of  life  "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feveral " 
must  have  a  permanent  place  in  the  literary  world.  Mrs.  M.  R.  F.  Gil- 
man,  who  had  made  the  selections  to  be  found  in  this  volume,  fully  under- 
stands Mr.  George  Meredith's  worth,  and  it  is  in  the  hope  "  of  gaining  for 
this  philosophical  novelist ''  an  opportunity  of  being  better  appreciated 
that  these  selections  have  been  made.  —  N.  V.  Times. 

Steadily  the  American  reader  of  light  literature  is  beginning  to  recog- 
nize in  George  Meredith  the  greatest  living  writer  of  English  fiction,  —  a 
man  who  is  bound  by  none  of  the  conventional  rules  which  hamper  and 
close  in  the  general  novelist,  who  is  original  in  his  methods,  and  who  is 
apparently  utterly  careless  as  to  what  the  public  thinks  or  says  of  his  work 
or  of  liimself.  He  works  by  no  set  rule ;  one  cannot  believe  that  lus 
books  are  planned.  They  are  begun,  and  they  go  on,  like  a  man's  life, 
and  often  stop  as  suddenly  and  unexpectedly.  They  are  not  well  rounded 
and  complete;  no  man's  life  is.  But  they  are  like  life.  Their  people  are 
real  people,  and  things  happen  in  them  as  they  haiijien  to  us.  They  are, 
besides,  full  of  meat.  They  make  us  tliink.  There  is  no  taint  of  mor- 
bidity  or  moral  unhealthiness  in  them,  and  no  attempt  to  point  a  moral. 
The  reading  public  is  indebted  to  Roberts  riKOTiiiiks  for  the  two  excel- 
lent editions  of  Meredith  which  have  been  brought  out  within  the  past 
year. 

This  house  has  also  just  brought  out  a  little  volume,  "  The  Pilgrim's 
Scrip,"  made  up  of  choice  extracts  from  Meredith's  novels  and  poems, 
which  vvill  do  much  to  turn  attention  to  that  author.  It  is  compiled  by 
Mrs.  M.  R.  F.  Gilman,  whose  excellent  taste  and  keen  literary  judg- 
ment have  guided  her  unerringly  to  the  best  things,  and  have  enabled  her 
to  give  the  author  "in  little"  to  his  admirers,  and  to  furnish  those  who 
have  yet  to  make  acquaintance  with  his  writings  a  taste  that  will  grow  to 
an  appetite  for  a  feast.  —  Transcript. 


Sold  everywhere.     Mailed.,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price, 
by  the  piiblisliers, 

ROHIORTS  HRO'l'HI'lR.S,  Bo.sion. 


Jfiis/s.  Rc>lhr/s  Ihoi/icis    Publications. 

GEOEGE  MEREDITH'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

BALLADS    AND    POEMS    OF 
TRAGIC    LIFE. 

Ottv    loliniif.      ir,tiin.      Clolli.     J'rirv,    $1.nO. 

The  "  rallads  and  Poems  of  Trapic  I-ife"  include  four  productions  that  are 
not  only  to  be  ranked  among  Mr.  Meredith's  be'^i  work,  but  which  must  stand  in 
the  forefront  of  modern  poetical  literature.  'I'hese  are,  fir^t.  the  ode  "France, 
December,  1S70,"  then  "The  Nuptials  of  Alti  a,"  ai:d  then,  a  lonj;  way  after 
either,  "  The  V'oung  Princess,"  and  ''King  Harold's 'J'rance."  '"'I'he  Song  of 
Theolinda"  is  also  of  noteworthy  jwwer.  Of  all.  the  ode  to  France  is  supreme 
in  its  majesty,  its  wisdom,  its  grand,  sonorous  versification.  One  cannot  read  it, 
or  any  of  the  otliers  just  mentioned,  and  deny  that  Mr.  Meredith,  with  all  his 
eccentricities,  is  in  truth  a  poet.  —  Literary  World. 


A   READING    OF   EARTH. 

I'oems.     IGmo.     Cloth.    I'rice,  $l.r,0. 


MODERN    LOVE. 

A  Reprint.  To  which  is  added:  "The  Sage  Enamoured"  and 
"The  Honest  Lady."  A  Book  of  Poems.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price,  $1.50. 

Of  all  his  literary  work,  prose  or  poetry,  this  is  the  most  genuinely  artistic 
in  form.  It  is  powerful  and  dramatic,  analytic  to  an  almost  intense  degree,  pro- 
foundly tragic,  and  absorbingly  interesting.  —Literary  IVorld. 


THE  EMPTY   PURSE,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS. 

IGmo.     Cloth,     rrice,  .$1.!iO. 

This  volume  contains  that  fantastic  poem  entitled  "  Jump-to-Glory-Jane." 


Sold  by  all  Booksellers.     Mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt  oj 
price,  by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGEL£9 


.    V: 


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